


Immortal, Infallible

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Nothing but the Truth [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, mentions of torture, philosophy & theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: The cell in her memory is cold like a late autumn night; there is water trickling down the walls, but Iovara is warmed by her own inner fire, the flame that Thaos sought to extinguish, but failed in his endeavour. Amusing, Iovara thinks, touching her forehead, which is hot with fever. Amusing that he had been the one to first discover that fire burning within her.(Iovara’s journey from being Thaos’ favoured apprentice to becoming his most fierce opponent.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rannadylin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/gifts), [Star_Miya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Miya/gifts).



> (Kudos to Ranna for beta-reading this wall of text, and kudos to Miya for alpha-reading scene sketches and ideas! This fic would've never got written without you, ladies.)  
> (Any possible remaining typos and other mistakes are my own.)

She is floating in adra, apart from time and space – a soul thrown beyond the wheel of life, imprisoned in an eternal void where nothing exists but her own thoughts and memories. They form another kind of wheel – always the same shards of the past, always the same recollections – usually those she would rather forget. The memories are like a lake, like river rapids – a blurred whirlwind, from which brief coherent pictures emerge only rarely, each of them like drops of water dripping down the cold stone walls of a prison cell.

That is what Iovara remembers the most clearly. Damp walls, wind howling behind the closed door, time measured with the sound of dripping water, which seems louder every evening. Tap, tap, tap, the water counts, your time will come soon, apostate, heretic. What was supposed to be an insult has become a badge of honour. Iovara whispers these words to herself  like a lullaby, because they remind her of what is most important in her life. Because it is all she has – these words and the unwavering faith that her beliefs are right, that she has seen the truth. But there is a price to be paid for every truth... although she has never been afraid of paying.

The cell in her memory is cold like a late autumn night; there is water trickling down the walls, and her missing fingers are throbbing with pain, but Iovara is warmed by her own inner fire, the flame that Thaos sought to extinguish, but failed in his endeavour. Amusing, Iovara thinks, touching her forehead, which is hot with fever. Amusing that he had been the one to first discover that fire burning within her.

* * *

 

The autumn night is cold, and there is rain trickling down the window. Iovara is curled up on the temple’s stone floor, close to the fire, listening to the words of the missionaries, her eyes wide with curiosity and wonder. She has a lot of questions – always, about everything – and even though she usually pesters Myghal, one of the local priests, those strangers are different, and she does not dare interrupt them. And now they are talking of things that are well known to her, anyway, so instead of asking, she shuffles closer to the fireplace and starts watching the audience.

One of the missionaries – probably of a higher rank than the others – is sitting near the fire, too. His robes are simple, and the only thing that makes him stand out among the others is an amulet made of adra and copper. He does not speak, merely observes, his dark eyes registering everything. Then suddenly he looks at her, and in that moment Iovara knows this man can see all her questions, her thirst for knowledge, the constant fire burning in her soul. She knows because she can see a similar flame in his eyes.

When the priest – Iovara recalls that his name is Thaos – gets up and starts talking, she is not afraid of asking him questions. But neither does she interrupt him. Because when Thaos preaches, the fire in his eyes burns brighter, until it seems it could consume the whole world.

“I want go with you!” Iovara announces when the sermon is over, reaching out as if she wanted to grab Thaos’ robe and make him stay, because there are still so many answers she has not yet found... But she stops her hand mid-motion and snatches it away instantly; she is old enough to know that would not be appropriate. “I want to be a priestess; I want to...”

Thaos smiles at her indulgently. “It’s a little bit too early for that. For now, you should learn, read. Listen. Watch.” He puts his palm on her head, as if to bless. “Have patience.” He withdraws, ready to move back and leave her.

“How will I find you?” Iovara cries out in despair. How can fate be so cruel and take her dream away after she has just found it?

In the dim light, Thaos’ eyes are gleaming.

“I will be the one to find you, child.”

At night Iovara dreams that she is a missionary, walking through towns and villages at Thaos’ side. That she is the one preaching, and Thaos is standing next to her, watching her with a proud smile, just as her father used to.

* * *

 

Iovara wakes before dawn, but cannot fall asleep again, too excited by that vision of the future revealed to her so unexpectedly. She imagines that in a few years she will be teaching people about the gods just like those acolytes, and Thaos will be sitting nearby, listening, giving a small nod from time to time just to show her how well she is doing. There is no doubt in her heart; she is sure that is how it will be. For the first time in her life she knows for certain what is it she wants, knows which path she should take, and she will do everything in her power to walk that road.

She wants to start learning the next day, from the very morning, and for that she should go back to sleep, to rest well. But now she is distracted by the whispers coming from the adjoining room.

“A priest?” Mother asks quietly, obviously dissatisfied.

“He’s a Woedican priest, mother,” Riovan answers in a cool, calm tone; the way she always speaks when she has decided on something and is determined to do it. “I’ve never heard about them going barefoot or hungry.”

Mother is quiet for a long time, so long Iovara almost falls asleep.

“Think about it,” she says at last. “You took over your father’s business, you manage... you’re doing quite well.” Is she trying to cheer Riovan up?

“Yes, I manage.” Riovan snorts with laughter, but there is no mirth to it. “I’m doing just well enough to know what is the best merchandise I have to offer.”

Iovara wonders sleepily if her sister is talking about the ring she got from Father – after all, there is nothing else Riovan could sell, is there? But a simple silver band with a small adra gem cannot be worth much... Before Iovara is able to solve that riddle, she succumbs to sleep.

* * *

 

The kitchen smells of spices, just as it used to smell at home. Spices and roasted meat and garlic; Riovan will later complain that they stink, but Iovara likes the heady mix of scents and the cloud of steam and the slight note of smoke. It reminds her of the days when Father was alive, and when they would sneak into the kitchen together for a cup of milk and a slice of still warm pie just before her sleep time, after the cook was gone home and when Mother was busy combing Riovan’s magnificent mane of hair.

Now she does the same with her brother-in-law on those rare occasions she visits and stays overnight, when Mother is busy combing Riovan’s hair before sleep. It has been some time since Iovara has last seen her sister with her hair loose, but it must be reaching well past Riovan’s narrow waist by now. They have never talked about this, but sometimes, when she cannot sleep at the temple and misses the fairy tales of her earlier childhood, she imagines that was how Cadan fell in love with her sister – because of the hair – it is dark as midnight and lustrous and silky, and absolutely wonderful.

When she tried asking him about it once, he just smiled in that foolish but somehow endearing way all besotted people do, and said that he fell in love with his wife’s beauty and grace first. From what Iovara has heard and learnt so far, she knows love is rare, and so she is happy for her sister to have found it and to have such an adoring husband. Riovan does not smile often, true, but she never has, and Iovara is too young to understand that unwanted love usually brings misery rather than happiness.

All she can see now is that Riovan can still live with Mother, that she wears rich, pretty gowns and that she positively glows with the gleam of all the jewels whenever she puts some jewellery on, and she does so often. Her future is safe, Mother’s future is safe, and Iovara can live her dream and learn at the temple, reading the scriptures and hearing about history and memorizing psalms and prayers.

And whenever she visits Riovan, she can talk with her brother-in-law – she always calls him that in the most serious voice she can muster and only giggles afterwards – and ask all the questions about Woedica she can think of; she really is glad that Cadan is the Exalted Queen’s paladin. He is also a minor noble and a warrior of some renown, which pleases Mother and probably also Riovan, though she never really talks of it. Riovan follows the tenets of the Woedican faith, but is not a very devout believer, and she seems relieved whenever her husband can talk of this with Iovara instead of her. Iovara does not hold it against her sister that she leaves her so often; her teachers at the temple have quickly made her aware of how tiring her questions can be.

She imagines that missionary – Thaos – would be more patient with her, just as Cadan is. Probably even more solemn, though, but by the time she becomes a priestess she will be an adult and will probably grow out of some of that curiosity others often find so annoying. The future is, all in all, a very appealing prospect.

It will take Iovara decades to understand the price of all that safety and comfort, to comprehend that on that night a couple of years ago Riovan was not talking about her ring. And that she managed to buy Mother peace of mind, to buy Iovara a proper education, while she... Well, whenever something is bought, someone has to pay for it.

* * *

 

The dust tickles her nose and Iovara sneezes, then coughs as another cloud of dust goes up as if in a pillar of smoke because of her sudden move. Most of her peers – not exactly the same age, but those who have been learning alongside her as novices – deem sweeping and dusting tasks unworthy of acolytes who have taken that that first step towards priesthood, but Iovara does not mind – at least she can see the results of her work quickly. Besides, she is too excited to focus on any more complicated task anyway. They would not bother with such thorough cleaning if they were not about to receive some very important guests; and anyway, one of the two orlan acolytes – they just keep smiling when asked which one it was – eavesdropped – overheard that the high priest of Woedica himself will visit their modest temple.

Iovara wishes it had been Thaos who anointed her as an acolyte and opened that first gate on the path of faith, but now she is an adult – just barely of age, as Riovan likes to say – and she knows better than to demand the impossible from life. Truth be told, she would not be surprised if he forgot about her long ago, even though she still hopes he remembers. Hopes, but does not really expect it. Thaos ix Arkannon is the high priest of Woedica, and as such he oversees all the clergy, so he has a lot of more important matters to tend to than looking for a girl he has only seen once and in passing.

And yet the Exalted Queen is a goddess whose memory is eternal, so perhaps she would lend some of her powers to her favoured. Despite her own better judgement, deep in her soul Iovara believes – feels – knows – that she will meet Thaos again, in a few years, if not in a few days. And she will make him proud, and he will look at her with that small smile of approval she sometimes dreams of, just like her father had.

* * *

 

The glimmers of sunlight in the simple adra amulet make it look deep like a lake, but it still seems shallow and dull compared to Thaos’ eyes – like her sister’s common everyday worship and her brother-in-law’s profound faith. The spark of fire in his eyes is still the same as the one she feels in her soul, and Iovara thinks that perhaps this is why it is so difficult to fathom they barely know each other; it is as if she has been searching for directions for years, and now that Thaos is here it suddenly becomes clear that he is her path. For some reason, she is certain it will be so, that he will guide her, that he will teach her what it means to be a true priest – that he will teach her how to light people’s lives with that inner flame she carries.

She has only seen him once, yet it seems obvious that she should recognize him instantly. What surprises her is that he remembers her as well.

“I see you took my advice to heart,” he says, smiling at her with approval.

Iovara bows her head respectfully. “I’ve listened to your every word, master.”

She should not be calling him thus, because she is not one of his missionaries, not yet, but she cannot really stop herself as the word finds its way to her lips on its own. This is how she thinks of him, anyway, and she is certain that soon she will become his apprentice. The road to her future is a clear, straight line.

Iovara looks up at him, too boldly for a mere acolyte. But were that courage and fire not why he had even noticed her in the first place?

“Teach me,” Iovara begs, looking into his eyes. “Please, teach me.”

Thaos watches her for a moment, his stare reaching to the very bottom of her soul. He is not doing it like the mind mages do when they look into people’s thoughts; no, he has his own way. Maybe it is one of the blessings the Exalted Queen has bestowed upon him.

“I will teach you, child,” he says gently. “For now, you are ready to embark on your journey.”

* * *

 

The morning air is still chilly, but the sun rising over the horizon is brilliant, and the world seems spun of silver and gold and the scent of fresh apple blossoms, and threads of mist and incense. The small temple which has been her home for years – too familiar a place to have any mystique left – suddenly becomes otherworldly, illuminated by Eothas himself, and Iovara could easily believe that is what the vestibule of Woedica’s palace looks like.

People are praying and chanting, and Mother is smiling, but her eyes are damp with tears, as if she was not certain whether to be glad for her daughter, or sad that she is about to lose her. If Iovara was paying more attention, she would notice that her mother is troubled by something else entirely; but her eyes are wide with wonder, already set on the road ahead.

There are many people – priests from the temple, her fellow acolytes and novices, a few missionaries, and Thaos who is standing aside but still is the centre of everything – and that is why Iovara does not notice her sister did not come to say goodbye. She will only remember about this many years later, when she sees familiar eyes behind a silvery metal mask. It will take her even more time to understand Riovan has never forgiven that the price for giving Iovara a chance at dreams was sacrificing her own. But by then, Iovara will be imprisoned in Breith Eaman, and Riovan will have been dead for years, and none of that will matter anymore.

* * *

 

 

 

_Illustration by **Alien Cafe** [[AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlienCafe)] [[tumblr](https://alien-cafe.tumblr.com/)]_


	2. Chapter 2

The grass is damp with mist and Iovara’s clothes are still damp after the rain. The evening is warm yet, but it is late summer and the nights are getting colder, so they will need a fire if they do not want to catch a cold or get sick. If Thaos even ever gets ill at all, she thinks, looking over to her mentor, who is sitting nearby leaning against a tree, calm as if being wet did not bother him at all. She bites her lip, trying not to scowl at this, and a corner of Thaos’ lips curls up, as if he knew what she was thinking. He probably does, Iovara decides, and with a sigh she turns her attention back to the pile of twigs and broken branches. Which are wet and apparently not in the mood for burning at all, which is really too frustrating. Iovara grits her teeth, trying to remain serene and focused, and draws a holy symbol across the wood; it is not really meant to be used like this, but Woedica allows her priests those little tricks when health, safety, or life are at stake.

Thaos chuckles quietly. “Patience, my child,” he chides gently. “Patience.” He gets up and moves over, kneeling beside her in a patch of dirt. “You’re an exceptionally quick learner, but I have a feeling mastering this one lesson might take a while.” His warm hand briefly clasps her shoulder. “Use it well while you can. Later, when you finish learning, you’ll find there is never enough time.”

He reaches out, his thumb, index and middle finger straight and the other two digits curled, and draws a holy symbol over the wood. Iovara has seen him doing it a dozen times, but cannot help watching; he does magic like a chanter puts notes into music, or an artist illuminates a book; with care and devotion, in silent focus that creates an aura of holiness around the whole process as well as himself. For a moment, Iovara wishes she could have such gravitas, too, but alas, that is something she will never be able to train.

The flames lick Thaos’ fingers, but he does not withdraw his hand immediately. It takes Iovara a moment to understand that he is warming his hand in the fire this way, that he is drawing the warmth into his body; that obviously, he is as cold and tired as she is, just his self-control is much greater.

Thaos catches her staring and smiles. “Patience. Patience is the key.” He withdraws, reaching for his pack to find food. “To most things in life, really.”

Iovara huffs quietly. “Then this is going to be a hard lesson.”

He laughs; the sound is not loud, and very brief, but it instantly brings her back to her childhood and all the jokes she shared with her father. Iovara glances over at Thaos, but quickly turns away, hiding the stray thoughts in her pack as she searches for leftover bread, smoked meat and dried fruit.

She has been his apprentice for a few months now, but still she is not sure how he would react if he knew she thinks of him that way sometimes. It is not very difficult to notice he allows her a little bit more than most other acolytes, that she can address him slightly less formally; there are a few other promising, talented students he favours, but even with how subtle he is, it would be difficult to miss that he singles her out. Is it because of the fire in her soul, similar to the one he carries within his own? Is it just her imagination, or do they really share a connection? Is it because of that flame burning in her, constantly pushing her to know more, to learn more quickly, to go and bring people the message of hope? Does he feel like that, too? Is it...

“It’s late,” Thaos says, clearly amused by something. “Change into some dry clothes and go to sleep, child. You should rest; tomorrow is your first sermon.”

Iovara should be anxious – most of her friends would – but she is just eager. She is not in the least nervous; she cannot wait to stand there before an audience and speak to them. Yes, it will be a challenge, but she has been practicing and she is confident in her knowledge about the gods enough to be certain she will answer any questions. And most of all, she wants to show Thaos how much progress she has made, how she has always listened to him and never missed a word of his advice.

“Iovara. Go to sleep.”

He scolds her like a father might, and as Iovara lies down on her blanket and looks up, watching the stars scattered across the sky, she is overwhelmed by gratitude. They have already said the evening devotions on the way, but Iovara quietly thanks the gods for their blessings again. She expected that the life of a missionary would bring her fulfilment, but she has never dared to dream it will also give her the part of the family that she has missed the most.

* * *

 

The air smells of incense and smoke, and melting wax. Iovara carefully puts new candles on Eothas’ altar in the small side-chapel; there are similar altars here for all the other gods as well, a symbol of how they are all united under Woedica’s guidance. Aside from Woedica, Iovara has always been partial to Eothas, too - that most childish part of her has, as she now thinks of it. She likes sunlight, she likes bright things like stars and candles and hope; her allegiance is to the Exalted Queen, and that is whom she worships, but she pays respects to the other gods as well. And, truth be told, Eothas seems like the best one to pray to for the gift of patience.

Pretending she is occupied by the candles and flowers on the altar, she quickly looks around and, seeing that there is no one near, she raises her hand to the wick of one of the candles and carefully draws the symbol. There is only a spark, at first, but then it bursts into a small, steady flame, and Iovara has to muffle a cry of joy. They have matches and magical rods for this, she knows, but learning holy magic by lighting candles in the temple seems somehow more appropriate than doing it by lighting the oil lamp in her room. And Eothas would not hold it against her, anyway; she is sure of it when she glances up at the god’s benevolent face smiling down at her from the adra statue.

It takes her a while to register someone’s presence behind her. Slowly, Iovara turns, knowing what she has just done was foolish, and wondering whether this is a priest or a fellow acolyte, or maybe one of her friends, trying to guess into how much trouble she has gotten herself this time. She recognizes him just as she stops moving.

Thaos is shaking his head gently, wordlessly reproaching her for overstepping her bounds and using a priestly spell in a way it is not meant to be used. But when she looks closer, she can see that he is smiling, not really angered by her impudence, but rather amused by her gall.

“Since apparently you’ve mastered the spell, don’t do that again, will you?” he says, but there are no stern notes in his voice.

“I won’t. I apologise, master.” Iovara bows her head, like an obedient acolyte should, but when she straightens, she smiles at her mentor lightly.

Thaos shakes his head again, but he does not scold her.

* * *

 

There is a brief glimmer of pain as she pricks her finger on the needle yet another time, and Iovara bites her lip in frustration. There is not much more she can do; she does not know any proper swear words – at least that is what Piran always says whenever she tries to express her irritation, and since he is sitting right next to her with a book, she is not going to give him the satisfaction. Especially considering that he also told her taking up an activity she hated just to learn patience might not be a good idea.

Iovara puts her finger into her mouth for a moment, and grimaces at the metallic taste of blood. Then she casts a minor healing spell. Holy magic is definitely not meant for such things, but she supposes that Woedica might be more lenient when it is about something involving her high priest, and Iovara would really hate to leave stains on the robes she is making for Thaos.

She hears a quiet chuckle, and scowls at Piran for laughing at her, but he is not bothered in the least. No reason for him to be, really; they have become good friends, and just take it for granted than they would joke at the expense of each other sometimes.

“Now, now.” He closes the book. “What would His Eminence say if he saw you now?”

“Patience, patience,” Iovara replies instantly, perfectly mimicking Thaos’ manner of speech.

“Don’t do that!” He chides, taken aback that she dares to laugh at their mentor.

“Why not? That’s exactly what he would do.” But when Piran furrows his brow, she quickly calms down and becomes more serious. “When you know you’re respected, you’re not afraid of a little jest.”

“There are some topics that make me lose what little sense of humour I have,” he remarks sourly. “Not jesting about something can be a great way of showing respect, too.” He shakes his head. “Fine, fine, forget it. There,” he says, pointing out a spot on the robe. “You missed one.”

“What?” Iovara groans, devastated by the thought she will have to redo so much embroidery, and leans over the fabric to examine the patterns of adra gems and copper thread, only to find everything is in order. “Oh, you... you little...”

Piran burst into laughter. “I wish you could see the look on your face...”

Iovara just wags her finger at him, but she is smiling. Piran is usually not the one to laugh, and even when he is joking he does not smile very often, and she is more glad to see him in such a good mood than she is angry at him for giving her such a scare.

“Back to reading, you. And please, don’t do that again. I hate embroidery.”

“You haven’t warmed to it a little even after so many hours?”

Iovara considers it carefully, because even though the question is trivial, the answer will tell her an important truth about herself. “Maybe a tiny bit. Now read. Or just be quiet. I need to focus.”

Piran just smiles at her, shaking his head, but does not comment further and goes back to reading. Iovara does not hear a word of it, though, lost in thoughts.

When Thaos suggested that she should learn patience, he did not appoint her any particular task or exercise; finding the right way on one’s own is always a part of his lessons. Iovara is one of the very few acolytes who have never been intimidated by that; she can follow, but she has grown enough to guide herself when necessary. And she thinks she can understand what Thaos expects of them – of her – so that she would care for that fire within her soul and hone it until it is so bright nothing could dim it.

She picked embroidery on purpose – even as a child, she hated sewing and any similar tasks, so if that would not teach her patience, she had no idea what else could. It was painful in the beginning; the very moment she looked at the needle, she would think that someone needed to wash the altar in the main chapel, or dust the floor, or bring new candles... But then she would think of Thaos, and of how much he had taught her, and she would sit down and focus. There is no better way she could thank him for mentoring her than by giving him what is essentially her own hard work.

Of course, she does not have enough money to afford gems, but people bring many riches to Woedica’s temple, and the treasurer knows of Iovara’s plan and supports it. After all, the ceremonial robes of the Exalted Queen’s high priest have to be of a proper quality.

It was difficult, at first, and it still is a challenge – which is the whole point of it, she supposes – but then one day she looked at the tiny adra beads and plates and crystals, at the lines and swirls drawn in golden and copper thread – and she saw a pattern. She saw she had created something beautiful. And somehow, it made everything a little easier.

Iovara looks at the robe lying across her lap with quiet pride. None of Thaos’ ceremonial robes is this heavily embroidered, this decorative, this impressive. And the best thing about it all is that she should be able to finish it just before taking her holy orders.

* * *

 

Candlelight is gleaming on all the adra and copper, making the robe look like the night sky bejewelled with stars, or like strings of gems and pearls scattered on the sand beneath the surface of a shimmering lake.

Thaos is holding the fabric spread between both hands, looking at it, his eyes following the intricate patterns.

“It’s very beautiful,” he says at last, carefully hanging the robe over the back of a chair. Then he turns to Iovara with a small smile. “Thank you. You must have spent many hours working on it.”

“Not more than you’ve spent teaching me, master,” Iovara replies merrily.

Thaos chuckles, and suddenly it dawns on her how much she will miss it all. How much she will miss their conversations – and being able to talk to him more freely than the mere apprentice she is, even though he is the high priest. How much she will miss his laughter – always too short-lived, but speaking of his approval and satisfaction more clearly than any words.

She can dimly remember how she grieved after her father’s death and how she missed him, even though she was but a small child and had never known him as well as she would like to know him now, as an adult woman. And Thaos... She has gotten to know him well – as she had never had the chance to know her father – and she is afraid how she will manage without having him near when she travels to another temple and they will be a few days of journey apart.

“You will be fine.” Thaos puts a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve always been an apt, bright student.” His voice is calm and even, but in his eyes she can see pride and approval. “But there is nothing more I can teach you. It’s time you taught yourself.” He smiles at her gently. “And put all your heart into those studies. Because I think that one day, daughter, you will take my place.”

Iovara blinks and feels sudden tears rolling down her cheeks. She did not expect... She knew she had always been one of his favoured apprentices, she was aware of how much time he devoted to mentoring her, but... She has never really thought she could be more to him. She has been happy that she found someone who filled the void left in her life by her father’s death, but she has never seriously considered Thaos could ever treat her like his own child. There have been many dreams, but she has always had enough sense and reason never to aim that high, and maybe that is why now she cannot stop the tears.

“Don’t cry.” Thaos wipes her cheeks with the hem of his wide sleeve. “I’ve never thought that particular truth would be so traumatizing to you.”

Iovara laughs, recognizing his words for a jest. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“This.” Iovara takes a deep breath and then puts her arms around his waist and hugs him tightly. “Thank you,” she mumbles, with her face pressed against his shoulder. “For everything you’ve taught me. For your time, for your patience. For teaching me who I am.”

Thaos does not embrace her, of course, but still he lightly pats her back. Then he steps away, takes her face in his hands and formally kisses her forehead, as if bestowing a fatherly blessing.

“I am glad I could teach you. And I know you will make me proud.”

“I will,” Iovara promises. “I will never fail you.”

“I know, daughter. I know.”

This time, hearing that word from his lips does not make Iovara cry. She smiles at Thaos instead, feeling she could not be happier.

* * *

 

There is a quiet rustle of fabric, almost inaudible over the chanting that is filling the chapel, as Thaos wraps a priest’s cloak over her shoulders. Iovara feels just as happy as she did last evening; it seems all her wishes are fulfilled and all her dreams have become reality. She has found a worthy goal in life, a good cause; she has found her place in the world. And despite having left home, she has found family again; has found someone whom she admires and loves with all her soul; someone who has shared everything he has with her.

“Thank you, master,” Iovara whispers, looking into Thaos’ eyes, and knowing that from now on, whenever she calls him that, she will always think ‘father’.


	3. Chapter 3

The whispers behind the thin wall are just audible enough not to let her sleep, and even the rustle of the sheets seems louder than usual – it has been a very long day, and even though Iovara is happy to be ‘on the frontlines’, as the local priests jokingly call it, being a missionary can be tough work, and she is exhausted. She sighs, tries turning on one side and then another – again – and finally lies on her back, resigned, accepting that sleep will not come easily to her tonight. Once she stops moving, the voices become clearer, and despite knowing that it does not befit a priestess, Iovara strains her ears to listen as her curiosity gets the better of her. The old elven couple has been here for years, and has been serving the gods for decades, so there is a chance she can learn something useful, or interesting, at the very least.

Later, Iovara will not remember the exact words, despite trying to recall them. She will only remember that they have shaken the foundations of her world, of her whole life. She will remember the question echoing over and over in her mind: are the gods not real? How can that even be? How can that be, when she has seen proof of their powers?

She curls up in bed as she used to when she was a child, covering herself with the woollen blanket up to her nose, and shuts her eyelids tightly, wishing that it were just a nightmare, willing herself to wake up. She does not; she cannot, because she has not been asleep. Iovara is too stunned to even react; she just lies there in the darkness, eyes closed, wishing she still was in Woedica’s main temple. If she was, she would have never heard this terrible revelation. If she was, she could run up to Thaos and he would soothe her worries.

And then another thought occurs to her, maybe even more terrifying than the first. Is it possible that Thaos has lied to her? That he has been lying to her the whole time? To her, his favoured apprentice, to his daughter in spirit, if not in flesh and blood? Could he? How could he? Why would he do that? Why would he feed her lies, why would he promise that she should take his place when he returns to the Wheel? Why...

In the morning, Iovara is not certain if she has slept at all that night. She is weary, but it is more exhaustion of the mind than of the body; it is the uncertainty of not knowing, that constant tremor in the soul...

By the time she crawls out of the bed, she has made a decision. She will pack the most necessary things and leave at once, she will go to Thaos and talk to him; she will run to him, hoping that he will comfort her as a father would.

She does not explain anything to the elderly priests, only saying that Thaos has called her and she has to set off at once, and they do not question it, knowing his skills maybe better than she does. And she is smart enough to know that Thaos’ name can open many doors.

* * *

 

When an autumn rain catches her on the way, she finds out that she forgot to pack matches, so she has to use a spell to light a fire, as she used to when she was an apprentice. She recalls Thaos doing that, and draws the holy symbol over a stack of wet twigs. Nothing. Determined, she keeps trying again and again, but there is no fire, just a fleeting, dim spark that disappears before it even touches the damp wood.

Iovara grits her teeth, and then walks on, through rain and darkness and overwhelming doubts.

* * *

 

The expression of surprise on Thaos’ face is a rare sight, but it is obvious he has not been expecting her; he had no reason to. Still, it only shows in the slight rise of his eyebrows, and the sharp alertness in his eyes.

Iovara is trying to remain calm; her voice is even and her face is composed, but she knows that Thaos can feel the doubts and emotions churning in her soul, that he can see the hesitation in her thoughts. Maybe that is why he leads her to the inner sanctum, where they will not be disturbed and will be able to talk freely. There could hardly be a better place for this talk, Iovara thinks, amused despite herself.

“What happened, my child?” Thaos asks with concern, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Iovara wishes that he would hug her, that he would stroke her hair as if she was a little girl, that he would comfort her and calm her down, and explain she need not be so distressed because she has just misinterpreted. Maybe he would even joke that now, after she has learned patience, she should also work on hearing.

Reluctantly, she stops staring at the floor and the hem of her robe, and looks up at his face. Right behind him, there is a mosaic on the wall, and Woedica’s adra-encrusted eyes are watching her over Thaos’ shoulder... And that is when she becomes certain that she has learnt the truth.

“The gods...” It is difficult to force the words out of her throat. “Are the gods not real?” she asks in a rough whisper, full of fear and hope and despair, feeling that her whole life is falling into pieces.

Thaos’ hand tightens on her shoulder as all warmth disappears from his face. The eyes that meet her own are like dead adra: dark and empty.

“Who told you that?” His voice is calm, cool, steady.

Iovara is suddenly sure that her answer will be someone’s death sentence. She has no idea where that has come from, because she has never seen Thaos raising his hand to strike anyone – except in defence – and...

“Who told you that, daughter?” Thaos asks again, in a voice cold like the stone walls of the sanctuary and the iron crown of the Exalted Queen. His hand is clasping her shoulder almost tightly enough to bruise.

Iovara shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

The gleam that appears in his eyes is even more terrifying than the darkness.

“Oh, it does. It is a very important detail. But it can wait.” His expressions says plainly enough that he will learn that one way or another, and that she need not make it more difficult that it is already going to be.

Tell him, tell him, Iovara’s mind yells at her, you know that will be for the best, you know that... She cannot. If someone has to pass the sentence, let it be anyone but her. What happens next will be her fault, anyway, only because she asked, but...

Her blood turns to ice. If Thaos had nothing to hide, he would have never reacted this way. For a moment she regrets not being naive enough to hope it is only anger at his fellow priests for speaking such lies and heresies... But then she looks into his cold eyes – later, in the cell, it will not be the memory of tortures that will make her wake up screaming – she looks and instantly she knows.

“So it’s true...” Her voice is calm, but she is shaking.

“True?” Thaos withdraws his hand and only then she feels the pain in her shoulder. “Yes, it’s all true. The gods are real, they do exist. Do you want to ask Woedica the same question?”

Iovara looks into his eyes. Please, convince me, she begs him in her thoughts, please, do not take back everything you have given me over the years. Please... No, she corrects herself quickly. Get a grip on yourself, girl.

“I am asking you, master,” she replies, quietly but clearly. Why have you lied to me, father? Or had _that_ been a lie, too?

She tenses, straightens, raises her head up – the effort is great, but otherwise she would just curl up in pain. Not physical pain; but her soul is shattering into tiny shards.

“Oh, no. None of that.” Thaos’ stare is freezing, and so distant as if he was looking back at her across the ages. “Say it aloud... daughter.”

“Have you lied to me... father?” Iovara asks quietly. “Have you been lying to me, too?”

“I have already answered that. The gods exists and are what we call them in our prayers. Yes, the prayers do not lie, and I have never told a single lie either; not to you, not to anyone else, be it a priest, an apprentice or a faithful.” His eyes narrow a little. “Do you doubt my words?”

I do, Iovara thinks in despair. Her soul splinters. She doubts him, and maybe that is the worst discovery of all.

“They exist... How long have they been here, father?” she whispers.

Fire kindles in Thaos’ eyes, and suddenly he looks just as usual; Iovara wishes she could believe that. She would give a lot to believe that, but she cannot; from now on, she will always see his true face in her mind.

“This is not the place nor the time for this conversation,” Thaos says, almost gently. “Come find me after the evening prayers.” The flames go out as if in a gust of wind, and the illusion dispels. “And don’t breathe a word about it to anyone.”

Iovara opens her mouth, but before she can form a single sound, Thaos speaks again.

“Your silence,” he says indifferently, “or their names. Choose wisely, my child.”

Long after Thaos leaves the sanctum, Iovara is still standing there, leaning against the wall and trying to stop herself from shaking all over. So it is true... her whole life has been a lie.

No, she thinks hotly, as defiant as she has always been; no. Thaos did not dismiss her and did agree to talk. So maybe at least one thing was true. Iovara thinks hopefully that if it is so, she will be able to somehow deal with everything else.

* * *

 

Thaos is waiting for her in his chambers, but he does not react when she knocks on the slightly ajar door and then walks inside. He is sitting in a low chair beside the fireplace, bent as if under an invisible burden, his elbows leaning on his knees, chin resting on his locked, half-steepled fingers. There is a fallen silver chalice on the floor, a few drops of dark red wine staining the stone tiles. In the dim light, it looks like blood.

After a while, Thaos finally straightens and turns to her. He motions with his hand towards a bench standing nearby, but Iovara only shakes her head.

“Sit, child.” His voice sounds as if it belonged to an old man, weary of life.

“I’d rather stand,” Iovara says quietly. With respect, despite all.

Thaos arched his eyebrows slightly, then shrugs. “Stand, then, if you wish.”

No, Iovara thinks, no. Not like this. Talk to me, she begs, looking at him pleadingly, but Thaos has already turned back towards the fire.

She hesitates, then approaches him and sits on the floor, at his feet. Thaos stares, taken aback by her action. For a while, they keep looking each other in the eye, in silence, as if neither knew what to say. As if they both knew that this conversation will change everything, that it will _end_ everything... and as if both of them were trying to delay that.

Iovara grits her teeth. He has been her teacher, her mentor, her guide, he has been... She experienced a loss like that once, and she does not want to... But she has to know; she needs to know. And later, when she learns everything, she will ask one more question – even though she is aware what price she might have to pay for it.

“Tell me why,” she whispers. She has no strength to demand answers, no strength to argue. She only wants to know the truth.

“There was no other way,” Thaos says.

It is clear that he believes in every word. But Iovara has already found that faith alone does not make something true.

“Tell me, father,” she asks quietly. “Tell me everything.”

Thaos looks into her eyes and she knows that something has broken, that it is the last time he has allowed her to call him thus. That even if he has ever loved her – like an apprentice, like a daughter – there are things much more important to him than that earthly affection.

And then Thaos turns his face towards the fire and starts speaking. He tells her how they had been searching, and how they had never found anything. Tells her how they had decided to fill that void. Iovara listens and feels that the very void he is speaking of slowly fills her soul.

When Thaos ends his story, they sit frozen in place for a while, quietly, because what more can be said? That, and because they both know there is one more question waiting to be asked.

It takes Iovara a lot of effort to get up. When she speaks, her voice is hollow. “Have I ever really been like a daughter to you?”

Slowly, Thaos stands up as well. His dark eyes are looking down at her from a face as cold and emotionless as the countenance of Woedica’s statue. “The choice is yours to make.”


	4. Chapter 4

Iovara spends the night in her old room, but again she does not sleep a wink. She is just sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, looking ahead with unseeing eyes. There is a pain lodged deep inside her chest – inside her soul; as if a part of her died last evening.

If she could only still trust Thaos, if she could believe that indeed there had been no other way; if she could do that, she would be able to live on, to pretend nothing changed. Maybe if he had been telling her the truth from the very beginning, she could... She still loves him: as her mentor and as a father; she loves him like one loves that most important person who has drawn and shaped the path of one’s life, the person whose absence makes everything meaningless. That is why it hurts so much to know he had been lying to her: because when his lies were brought to light, he was not able to admit he had made a mistake. That it turned out those lies are more important to him than their bond.

Iovara does not wipe the tears off her cheeks and just lets them flow. It would be easier if she could be angry, if she had the strength to yell and argue. But emptiness is all she has left.

Why should she try, anyway, why should make any effort, if everything she has believed in is false? She has been respecting the gods and their laws for so many years, and what grace was she given in return? Why even bother, when afterwards there will be nothing but just another pointless turn of the Wheel? Why struggle in vain, when everything the gods can grant in return is the slow disintegration of a soul?

She hoped Thaos would deny her accusation... She would rather he lied, if he only did it convincingly enough to make her believe it. She had hope... Now she is left with nothing.

In the morning, Iovara gets up and does everything she used to do around the temple as an acolyte, before she left as a newly ordained priestess; but now every word and gesture is empty. Still, she keeps doing what she used to, because what does it matter? Where else would she go? She clings to the place that used to be her home, and the rituals that used to bring her peace, but finds no comfort in either. Days blur into a string of habits: sleep, bath, food, work... and prayers that are now nothing more than hollow words. Iovara feels like an egg that has been sucked dry so it has become an empty shell; she feels like a shattered clay jug. But despite it all, she stays – no matter where she went and which way she took, she would feel just as lost.

She stays and clings to the frame of her old life as if she was waiting – and she is. She is waiting for any sign from Thaos, any slightest clue that he wants to talk to her again, that he has more to say, that he can put the same truth into different words, ones that would explain it better. Deep at the bottom of her soul, there is a faint glimmer of hope – growing dimmer and dimmer every day as Thaos continues to ignore her. No, not ignore; every time they pass each other in a corridor, or when their eyes meet in the chapel during prayers, his gaze is sharp, intense. Even without speaking to her, Thaos tell her clearly that it is time she made up her mind, reminds her that he is patient, but will not wait forever.

A few times, Iovara considers talking to him, but never acts on it. I regret, master, she thinks instead, I regret very much. She never finishes the thought, but if Thaos is reading her mind – or soul – he surely can understand anyway. And whether or not he is doing that, as long as she leaves so much unsaid and focuses on that regret over the breaking of their relationship, she can at least try to pretend that she has made peace with his words and accepted his reasons, that she has decided to remain at his side.

And suddenly it dawns on her that her place is not at Thaos’ side – that it has never been there; that despite what she thought, there _is_ something left. That if the future of all kith is the same, the only thing that matters is here and now. That if the next turn of the Wheel always wipes the slate clean, only current choices have any meaning.

Iovara makes her choice and she chooses the truth. And strangely, it calms her. She wanted to escape it... but now that she has embraced it there is no longer any need to run. No, she will not give up; she never has. She will take that truth and throw it in Thaos’ face. Because if he really deemed her suitable to take his place, she would hate to disappoint.

You have taught me a lot, master, she thinks at night, when she is in her room, too far for Thaos to be able to read her mind. And now she will show him how much she has learnt.

* * *

 

At dawn, after the first prayer of the day, Iovara is waiting for Thaos at the gate of the inner sanctum; the only place in the temple no one can enter without his permission. There is a sound of decisive, measured footsteps, and then Thaos walks out of the side corridor. A small, slightly mocking smile slowly curves his lips as he notices her.

“A very proper place for this discussion, isn’t it?”

Iovara calmly meets his stare. “You tell me, master.”

“I will tell you, child.” He leans towards her a little, and when he does, it seems his eyes extinguish all the light of the burning torches and enchanted crystal lamps. “Oh, yes, I will tell you the truth.”

“You don’t have to, master.” Iovara shakes her head. “You told me enough the last time we talked.”

There is a cold spark of amusement in his gaze. “I’ve always thought, my apprentice, that you like to hear every story to the very last word.”

* * *

 

The reflections of the firelight dancing in Woedica’s adra eyes make it seem as if the Exalted Queen was mocking her, but this time, even though Iovara is standing at the feet of the tall statue, she does not feel small. With enough patience, even a tiny chisel can take down any stone.

Thaos is watching her, quiet and serious, focused, waiting for her to speak. Maybe looking into her and weighing her thoughts, reading them.

Iovara shakes her head. Oh, she will read her mind aloud to him if he wishes to know it.

“You’ve been lying to everyone – to all kith – for years!” This time, she cannot help but raise her voice, and she is not even trying to hide the reproach ringing within it. You have lost your way, master, she thinks. And she wants him to know her opinion about it.

“I have never lied,” Thaos replies evenly, in an icy tone. “But even if I had... Has it ever crossed your mind that it was the only sensible thing to do? That between so many different tribes and clans, there was one thing they all had in common? Come on, guess.” His mockery cuts all the deeper for how quiet and calm it is compared to her voice. “You have always been a bright student; surely you do not find this riddle to difficult to solve?”

“Oh, yes, they had,” Iovara says hotly. “The lies you had created!”

“Before that.” Thaos voice is quiet like the eye of the storm, but there is fire blazing in his eyes. “Before Woedica’s reign, before she and the other gods came to be, each tribe and nation had their own gods. Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe mortals need faith?”

Yes, it has; she has been his student, after all. But the gods are not the only source of faith; one can believe in truth, in...

Iovara raises her head. “We can believe in ourselves.”

“In kith? Oh, yes, of course you can. Go, then, go among people and tell me: do you want to believe in them? In their ability to reason, in their goodness? Go, look around and tell me how many good people do you see.”

“An interesting argument from the man who... What have you done exactly, over the years, master? What have you done, that you never really speak of your previous lives, when Woedica blessed you with the memories of them all? What have you done, and what for?”

“For peace. For order.” Thaos’ eyes gleam, and a corner of his lips twists in a brief, mocking smile. “And for years, you’ve been walking right beside me.”

“Maybe so,” Iovara agrees, calmer now. Heated discussions have always been her element, and this time she is certain she is in the right. “But now I walk ahead of you.”

His eyebrows arch in a silent query. “Oh? And where are you heading, apprentice?”

That momentarily stops her. It is one thing to know she has erred and that she will no longer walk Thaos’ path; it is another to see where her own way will lead her when she has just started treading it.

“I will tell people that they do not need turn to the gods for strength or endurance or inspiration. I will tell everyone that we carry this power in our souls. That we always have.”

“That, at least, we can still agree about,” Thaos replies, surprising her again. “But are you certain you know what fuels this inner flame?”

“Faith,” Iovara responds without hesitation. “In others, in the truth, in oneself.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he studies her, and for a moment Iovara remembers the cold rainy night and the familiar spell which failed her despite numerous attempts at using it. Both those rainy nights.

“Yes, it is faith,” he says, almost gently, with the same conviction he has been teaching her about the gods. “In a higher power. In something greater than our meagre lives, in something that will continue even after we are gone.” He is speaking quietly, but his voice resounds with the depth of ages. “That is what drives those who seek; the need to leave a mark on a stone wall that will still stand when we are gone. Or to bring it down.” He gives her a look she cannot decipher. “That is the need you feel now. And who knows, maybe you will even understand it all fully before it’s too late?”

“I already understand it.” She has been adding stones to Thaos’ false temple for years; now she will shatter it. “I understand it better than you ever will... master.” If he has ever truly thought of himself as her mentor, hearing that title from his apprentice’s lips should make him think, at least, even if it will not hurt him.

“No, you don’t,” Thaos contradicts in a voice calm like a frozen lake. “Do you think all people are like you? That everyone will think of others, when you yourself cannot do something you deem so simple?” He comes closer, raising his head maybe half an inch, but suddenly he is towering over her. “You know nothing of the world, naive girl.” His words sting all the more because he cannot be bothered to get angry, because in the end, she is not even worth his wrath. “Look at this world we live in, overseen by the gods; gods who watch and sometimes even listen to our prayers. Gods who punish evil deeds, usually by the hands of their faithful, but sometimes they do give signs themselves. And even though divine wrath is not some vague, intangible threat, but a real, physical thing, there are people who do care neither for the mortal, nor for the divine law, who do not fear any punishment and laugh at it.” Thaos takes another steps towards her, his dark eyes two deep wells, sucking in all light. “That’s how it had always been and how it will always be. But there are also those who do not care for the laws written down by the kith, and yet are afraid of the divine wrath; and it is that fear that stops them before they cross the line between thought and deed. Think what will they do in the world you want to create. Think of it. Think how many people you know are like that, and how many are like you. Think if that is the world you would like to live in.” His eyes narrow. “And then ask yourself whether the truth is really better.”

Iovara shakes her head. “I believe in people,” she says, almost with a lilt, almost as if she was singing. She does not trust him anymore, yes, but his lies aside, up until now she has only ever known good from others; how could she _not_ believe in them?

“That faith will be your undoing,” Thaos replies.

“You will see to it, no doubt.” Her lips curl into a small smile. “But you cannot decide for them. Everyone has the right to make their own choices.”

“Choices?” Thaos snorts derisively. “Does a king give his subjects a choice? Did life give your family a choice? Did death give it to your father?” he asks quietly, but his voice cuts like a knife. “Do you choose the house you are born to? It had never been so, even before Berath started watching over the turns of the Wheel. The right to make choices? Look around, girl. We can only choose what to do with the cards fate deals us.”

“Maybe it’s time to change that.”

“Then burn the world down and build it anew,” Thaos says, the very fire he is speaking of illuminating his face and gleaming in his eyes. “Just remember that not everything once turned to ruin can be rebuilt.” Thaos leans towards her again, their faces inches apart. “Think on it, apprentice, and think thoroughly. I never warn twice.”

“You never warn,” Iovara replies softly, as yet another hidden truth becomes apparent.

“I do warn. Once.” His brow furrows. “You need only listen to what I say.”

Iovara listens, hears and understands his words... but she is not going to heed them.

“Think what is more important,” Thaos adds quietly. “Truth or hope.”

She would gladly hate him for those words, but she still loves him; alas, the love a child holds for their parents does not die so easily. And he is well aware of it, and that is precisely why he has said that; to remind her how much she would give to go back in time to the days when she still had hope.


	5. Chapter 5

This time, to her own utter surprise, Iovara does not cry. She is still overwhelmed by regrets, she is still despairing over wasting so many years of life, but there is a fire burning in her soul, climbing higher and higher until it dries the tears. That flame is anger. But more than that – her anger is just and it is righteous.

How could he force her to make such a choice? How could he shun all the responsibility so easily and throw it onto her shoulders, as if he did nothing wrong, as if...

You betrayed me, father, Iovara thinks bitterly. You have been lying to me for years. You have been lying to us all.

How could you, father, asks a softer, much quieter voice, only to be immediately drowned out by the first one. He has been lying to everyone, to the whole world. Tomorrow, she will say just that right to his face.

Thank you, master, she thinks suddenly, swallowing unexpected tears, hot and scorching. She is grateful for this small mercy, at least. Thank you, father, she thinks, calling him thus for the last time; thank you for making it my call when to say farewell.

When her father – her real father – died, she could do nothing but grieve and weep, to nurse that place which was hurting within her. This time, she can choose. And this time, she can fight back. For the truth – because this is the only thing she has left.

* * *

 

It seems that either Thaos has fallen for her trick, or he is giving her time to think and change her mind, hoping she will decide to stay beside him. Or maybe he guesses she is going to leave, and needs that attempt as a pretext to sentence her to a proper punishment. A few weeks ago – even a few days ago – she would have thought that he was hesitating, weighing his duty and obligations to his gods against fatherly love. But she can no longer believe it; she is beginning to doubt he is capable of feeling at all.

She cannot hate him; not yet, at least. He has taught her so much, shown her she is able to reach high and accomplish great things, greater than she thought possible; he was the first to show her how to fill that void in her soul. And she will be forever grateful for all that. No, it is not hate she is feeling. More like disappointment – because it turned out that someone she had been keeping on a pedestal was nothing but an illusion; that he never existed. The Thaos she knew was just another lie; real, but not true, like his gods.

The emotions are still too raw in her, and that is why Iovara does not think more deeply on that. It never occurs to her that if the gods are real in some way, that if those lies have a grain of truth in them, it means that Thaos as she knew him is not entirely a lie either. Later, in the depths of the Court of Penitents, when she will start dwelling on it at last, Iovara will always try to avoid concluding what it all says about her that she, who always tackled all challenges head on, has been withdrawing from that particular one for decades.

She will keep trying to forget that when Thaos was teaching her and watching her progress, she often saw pride in his gaze. That he dedicated more time to her than to any other apprentice, because he was trying to groom her as his heiress, because he wanted her to lead the clergy and the faithful in his absence, from his death up until his return. She will forget how hard she was trying, how obediently and gladly she followed his guidance, how eagerly she was learning the holy words, how she was learning and practising rhetoric, how she was studying history; all just to see a smile of approval on his face.

She will do whatever she can to wipe all those memories off the tablet of her soul. Maybe one day she will even manage to forget that there was a time – an instant – years – when he was like a father to her, and that he treated her as if she was his daughter. That maybe – no, no, impossible, he cannot be capable of such things – that maybe in his countless lives, she was the only person he has ever truly loved. That maybe this was the reason he sentenced her to a fate worse than death – because she was the closest thing to a family he ever had, and despite that, she turned against everything he worked for; that she has forsaken the cause for which he sacrificed his mind and soul, all he was and all he had.

For now, she keeps pretending that she is pondering Thaos’ words, that she is considering agreeing with him and admitting that he is right. And in secret, she is talking to her friends and to some of the priests she trusts the most; talking in whispers and allusions and subtle clues. It is too early to just tell everything openly and drag this greatest secret of all into broad daylight. But it is only the beginning, and for now, it is enough if she asks the right questions, planting the seed of doubt into the fertile ground of souls that know no rest, much like her own. A few days are enough for the questions to blossom into conversations, into cautiously imagining new possibilities, until they grow into quiet but heated discussions, whispered in the dark or muttered under one’s breath during morning and evening prayers.

Thaos made a mistake by allowing her to stay, by hoping she will eventually choose his path. A mistake he could make only if he... But Iovara has no time to wonder about it. What matters is that she can use that little slip. Her time here is running short, and soon she will have to leave – to run...

Creitum. She will go back to Creitum. Her home town will surely be happy to receive her – people still remember her, and they would have no reason to turn her away, since officially she still is an ordained priestess of Woedica.

She is not certain if she will dare to simply ask Thaos to send her to that temple so that she could continue her service there, in a quieter, less busy place, in a town that has converted a considerable time ago, where she would have time to meditate. But she is afraid he would sense her lies right away. No, it will be better if she leaves and just writes him a letter – or maybe asks one of the acolytes to give him a message. She will say that she needs more time, that she had to go home; that if she is to regain the peace of soul, what better place than the temple she had been learning at as a child? Thaos will understand that, and he will accept her explanation. He will hope that she is trying to do all she can to remain his favoured apprentice, his beloved daughter; he will believe this because he has seen and sensed her heartbreak.

She does not delude herself; this deception will be very short-lived. But it will buy her precious time. And later, when she opens the eyes of a few other priests – of her friends – Thaos will have no choice but to confess everything. And then, Iovara will give him a chance to join her. Because, despite all, she would never be able to raise a hand to strike someone who has been like a father to her – even though she is guessing Thaos would never have similar doubts.

* * *

 

She wants to leave quickly, before Thaos notices that she is missing; she is still afraid he might see through her plan and recognize that it is not the inner peace that she is after. There will be others who will follow her, she is already sure of that; and when the numbers of his acolytes start to thin, he will immediately know what is going on. It is risky, but she will need more voices than just her own to preach the truth to the world. She would gladly face her mentor, reproach him for all his lies again and then leave openly, through the main gate, instead of sneaking out through the temple kitchens back door. But he would never let her go, and Iovara is aware that she would stand no chance against him, because he wields his own certainty and the magic of his Queen; and Woedica, whatever she is, is much more powerful than any mortal being.

She barely slips out into the gardens when someone steps out of the shadows and blocks her way. For a moment, Iovara is afraid that everything is over, that Thaos saw through her charade. But the man pulls the hood back, and even in the dim torchlight Iovara can easily recognise the narrow face and bright eyes of her most faithful friend.

“Piran!” She smiles at him, relieved. “I knew you’d come with me,” she adds warmly. Among all her friends, he was always the one most sceptical towards her revelations and her plans, but they have been friends for years, and she has always staunchly believed in him.

“No.” He smiles back mirthlessly, and Iovara feels a pang of fear. “I’m here to stop you.”

“Stop me?” Iovara shakes her head. “Piran, please, you know what Thaos would...”

“His Eminence,” he corrects firmly. “His Eminence is right.”

“He has been lying to you, to us all...” Iovara whispers heatedly. “How can you...”

“It’s not about him!” Piran exclaims, and immediately covers his mouth with his hand, fearful that someone could discover them. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't...” He shakes his head, clearly distressed. “If you leave, you will never be safe again. Nowhere. You know it, Iovara. Forget about lies and the truth. Thaos will forgive you...”

“Forgive me?” she snorts.

“You?” Piran grimaces. “Oh, yes, he will. Who if not his favoured apprentice? He will forgive you if you only apologise. Maybe he will even allow you to leave, if you...”

“Leave?” Iovara interrupts again. “And let him spread those lies even further? Leave and... Then what? What would I do?”

Piran reaches for her hands. His palms are damp with sweat.

“Live,” he says quietly, looking at her with a strange gleam in his eyes. “Live. Leave with me.” Suddenly he is calm, and deadly serious. “I love you, Iovara. I’ve always supported you in everything, I’ve always been by your side, I’ve always been your most loyal friend. I’ve...” He squeezes her fingers. “Go with me. And live. Without great causes, without saving the world; a simple, ordinary life.”

Iovara is shocked into silence. Ah, she should have seen than long ago... Fool, she reproaches herself in her thoughts, you utter fool of a girl. She did see but she never noticed, she never paid attention because she always had more important things on her mind, just like... just like Thaos.

Iovara looks up at her friend with a soft, sad smile. He has always understood her, and she wants him to understand now, too; now more than ever.

“I can’t,” she says quietly. “I can’t give my life to one person when there is so much to do, and so many people out there live in the dark. I can’t, no matter how I might want that,” she adds, even though it is not an entirely honest answer. She does love him like a friend, and she could probably live with him – and that life would bring them both nothing but misery until the end of their days.

His gaze grows colder, harder.

“So many people...” he echoes, letting go of her hands. “No, it is not about people for you, is it? Nor about the truth.” A bitter smile twists his lips. “It’s not even about bringing order in place of turmoil, like it is for Thaos.” His voice becomes harsh, cutting; he has never spoken to her in that tone before, not even when they argued. “All you care for is having an important cause to give sense and meaning to your life. Because you are above ordinary things and concerns, aren’t you?” he mocks. “You only want a goal, a mission, nothing more.”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants?” Iovara replies fiercely.

Piran shakes his head. “Not when the price is so high, no.”

“So high?” She laughs grimly. “Are you telling me the price Thaos makes you pay is acceptable?”

“His price is what we pay for the world. But he did not make me pay; he did not make me do anything. He did not make me renounce my family.” Piran’s face freezes into a mask. “Nor did he make _you_ do that. By the way, how is your mother? And your sister? Do you even remember you have a sister?” His stare grows cold, and suddenly his eyes remind her of two frozen pools, and she can hear the ice cracking. “You love your quest for truth so much there is no longer any place left in your heart for family,” he accuses.

Iovara does not answer. Piran nods, as if her silence only proved how accurate his words are. For a moment they look each other in the eye.

“What will you do now?” Iovara ask at last. “Will you turn me in? Or maybe you already have, and Thaos is on his way here right now?”

“No.” A single muscle twitches on his cheek, but his voice is even. “No one is coming to capture you. I didn’t betray your secrets, and I never will. Because unlike you, I know what love is.” He steps aside, leaving her clear passage. “Go, if you want.”

Iovara lifts her head proudly and steps forward. As she passes her old friend, in the corner of her eye she notices a crooked smile on his lips.

“You weren’t even going to ask me to come with you, were you?” he asks sourly. “Oh, no, don’t bother with answering. You always had more important things on your mind.”

Iovara walks on silently, never once looking back. The fire blazing in her soul tells her that she is right. Piran is mistaken and... She shakes her head, pushing that thought away. This is a price she has to pay for the truth. Because there is always a price.


	6. Chapter 6

Halfway to Creitum, it becomes apparent to her that it is the first place Thaos would look. And the second one where he would send his agents would be any temple she has ever stayed in for some time. So Iovara changes her plans and her way, and goes towards a random temple near the border, where it would be plausible for a missionary to be sent to, and yet where they would not look for her immediately. And she is determined to avoid all places where Woedica is worshipped.

A shrine of Wael is the first on her trail, and it almost makes her laugh; it is as if even Thaos’ god of secrets approved of her discovery and the decision what to do with it. And indeed, the priests of the god of mysteries are the quickest to believe her words, even less questioning than her most loyal friends. They consider that what she says might be true… but they refuse to join her cause.

“You would strip the world of all mystique,” says Talan, the fair-haired pale elf, when they gather around the fire to eat. “You would give everyone the answer, when the purpose of life is to seek.”

“But is certainty not what we’re all searching for?” Iovara replies with a question of her own.

A bundle of blankets and rags lying near the fire moves; it is an elderly orlan, her fur gone all white and silver and grey. She turns her unseeing eyes towards Iovara.

“There is no certainty, and nothing is set in stone,” she rasps; her voice is dry and cracked like earth that has not seen rain in months. “This is the first, the last and the only law of the world that Wael reveals to us and never veils again. This is the only truth we ever write on the walls of our temples.” She puts her hands together, fingers forming the sign of one of Wael’s many eyes. “Let me look at you, child.”

Iovara forces herself not to flinch; there is something in the old orlan that makes her uneasy. Small furry hands reach out towards her, fingers moving rapidly in time with the eyelids blinking over a pair of milky eyes. Iovara sits still, but it is an unnerving experience.

I have nothing to hide, she thinks, looking at the orlan’s face steadily. If they do not want to join her, all she can ask is that they would not speak of her passage, that they would forget she has ever been here. All she would ask of them is silence; that should not be too hard for the followers of the god of secrets.

At last, the orlan priestess’ hands fall into her lap.

“We will let you pass,” she announces. “You turned your steps towards Wael’s domain, and he will give you a chance to understand.”

Iovara shakes her head vigorously. “I don’t want it. Haven’t you listened? We don’t need the gods and their chances when we have our own. I don’t need the chance Wael is offering me; indeed, I don’t need...”

The orlan laughs; it sounds like the creaking of old tree branches. “You don’t want them. That has nothing to do with need.” Her ears twitch. “You have a bright mind, and none of the wisdom to accompany it. Thaos should have taught you better.”

Iovara’s first instinct is to protest, to stand up for her mentor, to take offense at such unjust words. But he is not worth it. Why should she do it, anyway, when he did not want her as his daughter anymore? And besides, the elderly priestess is right.

“Yes,” Iovara says quietly. “He should have.” She looks into the orlan’s unseeing eyes. “What will you do now? Will you tell him I’ve been here?”

“Oh, he will find out himself. He will track your steps. Find us. Find you. All in good time.” The old priestess motions towards the door, not so politely cueing it is time for Iovara to leave. “Go, unveil your secret, if you wish. Wael will watch you with interest.” Her brow furrows. “Just remember: whether a secret is revealed or remains hidden, the seeker is required to _think_.”

“I have thought about this,” Iovara replies calmly. She has. She has been thinking on it for days.

“No, you haven’t. You have just reached a conclusion. That is not all you have to do when solving a problem.”

“Yes,” Iovara agrees. “There are consequences; I know that. If I fail, if Thaos finds me, I am ready to face them.”

“You have not even begun to imagine them, child.” The orlan shakes her head. “You see the way ahead, you guess what to expect around the corner. But you cannot read the map even though it’s spread out before you. And no one gets far without a map, not in a foreign land.”

“It is my homeland,” Iovara protests softly. “In all the meanings of the word.”

“But are you familiar with it, I wonder?” The old priestess clucks her tongue. “Are you, having grown up in a temple?”

Iovara’s eyebrows arch. “Isn’t that the land we’re speaking of?”

The orlan bares her teeth – whether in a grin or a snarl, it is hard to discern in the dim light. “That land,” she says slowly, “lies just beyond temple doors. And unlike Thaos, you have never walked it.”

Iovara shakes her head. There is nothing else for her here. She has eaten and she has rested for a while, and now it is time to be on the road again. It is her land, she has studied the maps for hours when she was a child and then a youth; she remembers the old hunting trails the temple provisioner showed, trails neither Thaos nor his acolytes would know about.

She gets up. “Thank you for your good will,” she says, bowing to the old priestess. “And I am sorry you could not... be persuaded.”

Pointy teeth gleam when the orlan smiles; in the firelight, her expression looks strangely grim. “And I am sorry that between the two of us, you are the blind one.” She turns her head to the younger priests, who have been silent during the whole conversation, but listening intently. “Walk our guest out, would you?”

The only acolyte, a young dwarf, springs to his feet, but Talan stops him and stands up himself. He approaches Iovara, opens the door for her and gestures towards the path leading out of the temple; it disappears in the night shadows long before it reaches the horizon. Then, as she steps out, he walks beside her, and it dawns on her that he is probably going to scout the area and then confer with his superior before they decide on the course of action.

Iovara turns to the pale elf. “Why are you helping me?” she asks in a quiet voice, not wishing the old orlan to hear, and belatedly realising that a priest of such a god might hear a whisper better than words spoken out loud.

“Why does anyone pursue a secret?” he answers with a question.

Iovara snorts, amused, despite the gravity of her situation. “Doesn’t Wael know, then? The very god of mysteries?”

“Oh, Wael knows. You don’t have to be a god to know that.” Talan looks down at her, as if she was a child that could not grasp something very obvious and very simple. “It is to learn.”

* * *

 

The air still smells of smoke, and there are dark smears on the walls of many houses. Iovara looks down, seeing the imprint of her foot in a small pile of ash, and shakes her head.

Creitum is nothing like she remembers it. The missionaries – those who did not decide to join her, those she knew when they were all acolytes – left, setting fire to the old fort. And then, swearing they would not let the holy walls be desecrated with her heresies, they burned all the temples, too.

Iovara let them go; she did not want another fight; those happened too often as it was, and besides, she had to keep the fires from spreading over the city. Many people joined her cause after that, as she predicted; but even more decided to follow the missionaries, the very people who destroyed a part of their city and thoughtlessly endangered them. But it is her name they muttered with hate and disgust as they went away.

She tries to remember which house belonged to her sister’s husband; she visited it often enough, after all. But the city has changed, and she does not recognize it. She tries to remember where their home used to be, and fails at that as well. Thankfully, she has at least managed to forget Piran’s accusations.

The city is different than it used to be, and she is a different person, a grown woman now, not a starry-eyed girl. Maybe if neither changed, they would not fit together again. It feels good, to fit somewhere once more, even if it is like an old shoe, a bit too tight and chafing. It is good to rest and take a breath, even if it smells of burnt wood. She is tired of hiding, of running.

Despite what her friends and followers advise, she does not want to fight – they often end up fighting anyway, without her encouraging it – so they have to flee across the country. Soon, they will have to leave again. There is a trail across the land and across the map, marked by more and more people joining her cause – and, like a mirror image, more and more people joining what Thaos now calls the Inquisition. There is a trail and it leads to Creitum, and if Thaos brings an army, they will not withstand a siege.

Iovara shakes her head, smiling despite herself. Maybe Woedica’s hand was even in this, who knows. If Iovara were in the False Queen’s place, she would have punished Thaos for his failure long ago. But maybe, like Thaos, Woedica too has her favoured, with whom she is more patient. Iovara knows from her own experience that Thaos’ patience with her was a mistake.

* * *

 

When the guards bring another alleged spy, a red-haired girl dressed like an acolyte, she seems familiar. They are standing on the stairs of a burned temple of Eothas – and then Iovara remembers. She was here with Thaos when they met Deòiridh for the first time, and it was here when, after listening to Thaos’ and Iovara’s sermons, the girl decided to become a priestess.

Iovara would not recognize the girl’s face – pretty, but rather plain; everyone would seem plain to someone who had Riovan for an older sister – but she remembers the red hair. She also recalls that before she left, she had seen Deòiridh a few times – always at Thaos’ side, always shadowing his footsteps; fascinated with him ever since that first meeting in the temple and those few days the three of them spent on the road talking. And now suddenly this loyal acolyte is here.

Iovara nods at the guards that it is all right, that she does not expect danger. Not from this girl – woman, really, for she is a young woman. Iovara still remembers their first meeting, when Deòiridh was sixteen or seventeen years old, so much younger than her, barely even an adult. It has been six or eight years since – but a year is such a short measure of time.

“Tell me one thing.” Iovara watches the girl closely. “Why did you leave him?”

Deòiridh starts and then lowers her head, but not quickly enough to hide her blush. “He never saw me,” she answers quietly.

Iovara does not have the mind mages’ ability to look into people’s souls, but she does not need to. The sadness radiating from the girl is almost palpable.

“What is it you’re looking for here, then? Revenge?” Iovara would not condone that, but vengeance is something she could understand... It is not very probable, though, that this girl would act out of spite; she could not avenge anything even if she wanted to.

Deòiridh looks up hesitantly. Her grey eyes are wet with tears, her cheeks red with embarrassment. “I only wished that he would see me,” she whispers.

Iovara slowly nods, trying to bar an insistent memory from her mind. Yes, that makes more sense than vengeance; Deòiridh had always looked like a girl who would be ready to make sacrifices, to suffer and even to risk her life if that only meant that the one she loved would notice her. It is not very surprising she would stand on the walls of a besieged city just to have Thaos look at her for a moment longer. Iovara does not understand that and thinks it is a very foolish approach, but she cannot condemn the girl and turn her away for being naive.

“You are welcome here,” she says with an encouraging smile. “Come on. We have much to do.”

“I will do what I can,” Deòiridh assures fervently, staring ahead, over the city walls.

Iovara puts her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We’re living, feeling beings. We make all kinds of mistakes.” For a moment, she looks towards the closed gate; towards the direction Thaos will come from once he gathers an army. “And do things we regret.”

“Yes.” A smile flashes on the girl’s lips, but it is faint and full of sorrow. “That we do.”


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as they enter Ossionus, Iovara knows she made the right decision. This is a place that can withstand a long siege, and the city guard can easily be turned into an army. Now all she has to do is to convince the king to join their cause. Which should not be very difficult, she thinks, looking at her followers: former priests and acolytes, scholars and mind mages, all kinds of people from all the kith races. Those walking beside her right now are just a small group, but there are many more on the way or scattered across the lands, even now recruiting for their cause. There are even some attempting to infiltrate Thaos’ camp and learn of his plans.

Iovara spots Deòiridh’s red hair among the others and smiles. There have been many dissidents. There will be many more. She is confident; once more the road ahead is straight and clear. And once the king of Ossionus joins them, Thaos will have no choice but to give up, or perhaps even surrender.

* * *

 

Most of her friends and disciples are tense, no longer really trusting anyone but themselves, but she is calm. The king is not known for his piety – on the contrary – and it should not be too hard to convince him. In fact, Iovara does rather despise his choice of lifestyle, but prefers to keep that particular opinion to herself. He is not a good man, but not evil either; just lost. She will see to it later, when they are safe.

She takes a bath – it is wonderful to just lie in hot water after having spent days on the road again. Then she carefully brushes her hair and puts on the only clean robe she still has. The servants brought her a gown, but she refuses to wear it. She does not care for looking pretty; and knowing the king’s reputation, it will be better if she does not. Iovara makes a mental note to keep an eye on her companions this evening. Some might be all too willing, but they cannot allow themselves any distractions. Not now.

When she enters the great hall, followed by a pair of mind mages, she has to bite her lip to suppress a groan when she sees the dining table. It has been so long since they had time for fancy food; she might think it unimportant, but apparently her stomach has its own mind about it. She smiles warmly and walks over to the table, and she is seated at the king’s right hand, in a place meant for the most honoured guest. All the better; she will be able to talk to him undisturbed, and he will be more willing to listen after a cup of wine.

They eat and they talk, and she politely laughs at the king’s jests, and he politely laughs at hers. Really, he is nothing but courtly; he listens to her quiet arguments with attention, and he explains his doubts; she did not expect him to be this well spoken.

“For a long time, I’ve been hesitating. I feared for my soul.” Seeing the grimace she tries to conceal as an understanding smile, the king laughs out loud. “Well, preacher, you must have heard of my reputation.”

“Yes,” Iovara confirms, taking care not to speak in a condescending tone. “But I suppose a lot of what I’ve heard is false, as is the case with any rumours.”

The monarch smiles, amused. “Of course it is. You would never believe how underestimating gossip can be.”

Iovara musters only a tight-lipped smile in reply, careful not to offend him.

“Jests aside, though,” he continues, more sombre now. “I realised my mistakes. And I hesitated. And then, when I was looking for an answer, I learned you were coming here to seek refuge.” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “What a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I can understand your hesitation,” she says sympathetically, because that is one of only a few of their experiences similar enough that she can refer to it. “I was hesitant to take that final step as well.” And giving the other person the impression of being understood is crucial; she knows, from the way Thaos always talked to her, how well it works.

“It took me a long time to decide, yes,” the king admits. “But I am certain I made the right choice.” He does not smile, but he raises his cup in a silent toast, his face completely serious, and it tells Iovara more clearly than words could that he is with them.

Her spirits lift; they might have found a safe haven after all, and maybe their hopes will be fulfilled. And she is eating delicacies, and the wine in her cup is so fine she almost regrets having to water it even though she is not partial to wine – but she has to keep a clear mind – and though Iovara does not let her guard down, she lets herself forget the worries for a moment.

That is when she hears footsteps echoing through a corridor, somewhere close. Even, measured steps. Purposeful. Dreadfully familiar. When, after a few heartbeats that seem like eternity, the tall robed man finally enters the chamber, she knows who he is before she looks at him; but it is already too late.

“Welcome, my child.” Thaos’ voice is soft and smooth, but it echoes in the hall like a tolling bell.

Iovara drops the goblet, and the wine spills onto the floor. In the dim light, dark stains look like blood.

She was certain she would be prepared for this, but at the crucial moment her nerves betray her and she is paralysed with fear and shock. They were supposed to be safe here. Deòiridh suggested this place and Iovara’s mind mages did not find falsehood in her thoughts. Maybe they should have remembered the girl was gifted with similar skills as well.

Some of her followers jump up, ready to fight, but there are guards flocking into the hall now, all armed. She guesses it is mostly for show; with the powers Woedica grants him, Thaos would probably not need their help. Iovara glances around the room in defeat, and shakes her head.  There is no point in fighting; there is no point in anyone dying here in vain. Thaos would have brought an army anyway.

Iovara turns and looks at Deòiridh. “You lied to me,” she says in disbelief, disappointed by her own gullibility and the girl’s betrayal.

“She’s never lied to you.” Thaos raises his hand, beckoning, and Deòiridh hesitantly approaches him to stand at his side. There is a cold smile on his lips, but there is no malice in his expression, just disapproval and faints traces of anger, like shallow cracks in ice. “She let you lie to yourself,” he explains calmly. “And she never betrayed you.” Gently, he lays his hand on Deòiridh’s shoulder. “She has simply never stopped being loyal to me.”

One of the mind mages tenses and Iovara notices his hands curl into fists, and glimpses a flash of terror on Deòiridh’s face at the thought she might have to fight people with whom she has been walking for months, especially when some of those used to be her fellow acolytes. But before anything happens, Thaos turns his gaze towards the mage.

“I wouldn’t,” he warns quietly.

Then he looks across all Iovara’s companions, and the sheer force of his presence is enough to make them step back. It is one thing to talk of fighting; it is another to face Woedica’s favoured priest; no one really knows the extent of Thaos’ goddess’ power.

Suddenly, Iovara feels faint and she slips back onto the bench. Her friends rush to her, but the only person she can see is Thaos.

“Poison?” she gasps, shocked that he would stoop so low. He would, she realises as soon as the word is out of her mouth; he would.

“Herbs,” Thaos explains, walking towards her, and one of her disciples steps back in fear. “For sleep. I don’t want any more trouble than absolutely necessary.”

“In the wine?” she croaks; speaking is becoming difficult. “The cup?” The cup looked fine, but the king has drunk wine from the same jug, and he is fine; he has not moved from his place; it dawns on her that he was expecting this.

Thaos smiles briefly. “In the water. At this end of the table, you were the only person to use it.”

Before darkness overtakes her, Iovara remembers how Thaos told her that her faith in people would be her undoing, how she replied that he would see to it, and how it seems they both were right.

* * *

 

When Iovara wakes up, she is in a dark room, lit only by a single enchanted crystal hanging from the ceiling on a short chain, too high for her to reach. Other than that, the room is empty: no furniture, no curtains, just a small rug for her to sit or lie on; nothing she could use as a weapon. Thaos planned this; he had been planning this before she even decided to go here. She let herself to be talked into coming here, and walked right into the trap.

Iovara shakes her head. That foolish, naive girl... She never thought someone like that would betray them; she suspected a couple of other converts, but never Deòiridh.

Oh, yes, the girl did everything she could. And she never lied, not even once; she was simply always thinking of something else, different than what they were talking about. That is why they never caught her, despite investigating into her mind; because that naive girl was clever enough to always keep thinking of something that made her words true, that made it seem as if she was hesitating, and then acting with deep conviction. Because she was. In the end, Deòiridh proved smarter than they thought; maybe even brighter than Thaos gave her credit for.

Iovara wishes she was more prudent, more careful. More... imaginative? She was preparing for a siege, for an incoming army; she thought of spies and a blade or a spell from behind a corner or in the dead of night. She did not expect Thaos would use an enamoured acolyte who happened to have a very rare talent.

Well, maybe the girl got her reward at least, Iovara thinks with a snort, and shakes her head. To commit such a betrayal for the love of a man... She will never be able to understand this. But, in the end, it was weakness rather than spite, and Iovara supposes that in time, she will be able to forgive it. She can despise that choice, but she cannot really condemn the girl for foolishness and naiveté, and simply being blind.

There is a quiet knock at her door, and Iovara starts, her head whipping towards it.

“It’s me,” comes Deòiridh’s quiet voice. She sounds like she has been crying.

“Isn’t it a little late for talks and confessions?” Iovara asks, with a hint of light mockery. She will be able to forgive some day... but not yet. Not when she is worried about her friends and students, about all those who looked up to her for guidance and whom she involuntarily led to their doom; they will be given the choice between their lives and the truth… And, despite herself, for an instant Iovara hopes that maybe some of them will be spared.

A quiet, muffled sob is her only answer. Iovara sighs impatiently, but speaks no more. What else could she tell that girl, after they have talked so many times, and all her words failed to convince Deòiridh in the end?

“I... am sorry,” the girl whispers. “I... I’m so sorry.”

Iovara shakes her head, even though Deòiridh cannot see it. “Too late for that. Or too early, depending on how you look at it. But that’s not your concern; you’ve already done your part.”

Another sob, a bit louder than the previous one. A few quick, shaky breaths.

“Shouldn’t you be with Thaos, anyway?” Iovara asks calmly. “I thought he’d at least reward you for your faithful service.” It is mean of her, she knows, but she is tired and afraid for her people, and that pointless sobbing is getting on her nerves; if it was such an ordeal, the girl should have thought about it before. “That’s why you did it, wasn’t it?”

To her surprise, Deòiridh’s answer is steady as well. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

“I see he has taught you well how to lie.” Iovara lets her voice grow bitter. “Excellent, really. He should be impressed.”

“It’s not a lie,” the girl replies quietly. “I did it because he asked me. Not for him. It’s not the same.”

“Well, since you’re still here, that much is apparent,” Iovara says evenly. Serenity and using knowledge to aim where it will hurt the most; she has learnt that much from Thaos, at least. She will not show that deep down, she is angered by this, disappointed at herself, most of all, for letting this young girl make such a fool of her – of them all; she will not show how helpless she feels. But the shock and tension of the last few days – months – and the slow rise of hope and its sudden loss have worn her out, and she must do _something_ … Even if it is only trying to show this unhappy girl how misguided she is. “Does he not find your soul pleasing enough, even after what you’ve done?”

More shaky breaths. Then the shuffling of feet and the creak of the door, and faint scraping sounds, as if Deòiridh were getting up from her knees, using her hands to lean against the wood and haul herself up.

“Do you know what hope is, Iovara?” she whispers.

“All people do.” Iovara shrugs, not seeing the point of this question, but still decides to reply honestly. It is probable that as soon as they finish talking, the girl will run to Thaos and report everything. “If not for hope, I wouldn’t have left.” Go tell him, she thinks; go tell him that I found my purpose without him and his gods and his lies.

“Then why would you take it away?” Deòiridh’s question is barely audible.

Iovara wants to laugh at how silly the girl’s concerns are. “From you?”

When Deòiridh answers, her voice is barely audible and hollow, but steady. “From us all.” She chokes on tears, and swallows another sob. “I couldn’t let you. I am sorry... But I couldn’t let you.”


	8. Chapter 8

The next time they meet, Iovara is just a soul, encased in adra like a moth in amber, forgotten by everyone – except for the one person she would rather never see again – forgotten as if she became part of the stone itself.

When a familiar figure – soul? – enters the chamber and closes the door, it seems the sound vibrates through the walls and through adra. Maybe it is the girl’s peculiar talent, which allowed her to distort and conceal the truth - maybe it also lets her see what remains hidden from the eyes of most mortals, to notice the lonely prisoner trapped in Breith Eaman. Iovara wonders if Thaos knows that his pet is here – a derisive name for a girl who deserves better, despite all, but it is hard to imagine how she could ever be anything more for him. Yes, of course he would know; he will soon learn of it if he is not aware of this little meeting already. But that is for Deòiridh to worry about.

Iovara wonders why the girl is here, when they have already told all that could be said between them, when Deòiridh refused to believe proof and arguments, and reason, when she apologised but stated she would do it all over again – and if her words were just an attempt at kindness, and her regret an illusion she cast on herself. Iovara knows; there was a time she hesitated and there was a time she thought she regretted, but in the end she stood her ground while her sorrow did not. And the truth is what always remains, in the end.

Deòiridh comes closer, and though Iovara no longer has eyes, she can see: the girl’s fiery hair; her face, paler than usual; slight shadows under her eyes as if she could not sleep at night.

“You,” Iovara says instead of a greeting. Without reproach, just with… disappointment, both in the girl and in her own skills as a preacher.

“I need to know,” Deòiridh whispers, her voice trembling in tune with the vibrations of adra. When she holds her breath, the whole chamber grows still, as if holding its breath with her.

Iovara shakes her head; she can still summon the memory of her body – her soul still remembers the shape of the vessel it was contained in.

“I’ve already told you all I know. You heard me say that answer numerous times. Yet it wasn’t enough, in the end.” She takes a step forward, her fingertips touching the surface of adra on the inside; it feels as if the stone was the ghost, not her. “Was it worth it, at least?” she asks, finding it in herself to pity the girl. There is no way Thaos can hurt her now, not any longer, but that is not the case for Deòiridh. “Selling your soul?”

Deòiridh blushes – the glow that starts on her cheeks, and then spills over into her soul – but does not step back. “I didn’t sell it.” She takes a breath and raises her head a little. “I gave it. Before… Before everything. I gave it.”

Poor girl, Iovara thinks. Still so blind.

“Sooner or later, he will throw it away,” she replies calmly. “Believe me, I know.”

Deòiridh looks into her eyes, as if she was staring at a person rather than a spirit. Her eyes are the silvery-grey of the first light of dawn, of a mirror, of a silently drawn knife.

“It is strange,” the girl says quietly, “to hear you speak of belief.”

Iovara smiles mirthlessly; maybe so, but belief goes beyond what Deòiridh understands as faith. “Truth is the only thing one can believe in.”

There is a moment of silence as Deòiridh ponders over an answer. She might be perceptive, but she has never been a gifted discussant; indeed, she has always followed and never really participated in discourse at all.

“Why would you need to believe in truth, when it simply is?” For someone so untrained in rhetoric, the question is surprisingly sharp and on point. Except it is not hers.

Iovara laughs. “He taught you well. You even repeat his words.”

Deòiridh blinks slowly. “Isn’t that… true, though?”

For a moment, they keep staring into each other’s eyes intently. Iovara is not willing to give any ground, not while she knows she is right, and Deòiridh probably does not want to give up first, to prove to herself that Thaos’ teachings still have value.

What a sad picture she makes, Iovara muses, observing calmly, but not without compassion. Deòiridh is beginning to realise that her truth failed her, that her gods failed her; in time, she will also understand that Thaos, too, will inevitably fail her.

“I know you want to cling to hope,” Iovara says suddenly, her voice warmer, and Deòiridh looks away, embarrassed by her pity. “But I can give you no other answer.” She only has one, and she has given it over and over, stayed true to it; Deòiridh never witnessed her trials, but she was there when Thaos sentenced her. All Iovara can do is repeat her truth again, as gently as it can be said – but there is no soft way to tell someone that the world as they knew it has ended. She knows; oh yes, she knows. “The gods exist, but they are not real, not how you… how we were told about them. They were made by kith’s hands. By Thaos’ people. Ask him, if you want confirmation.” This is cruel of her, to send the girl straight into disappointment and despair, to force her to see that the man she loves is just an outline covered by a veil of lies, constructed as carefully as his gods. But Iovara will not relent; some medicine is bitter, and some wounds cannot be healed without more pain. “Who knows, maybe he will even tell you.”

Deòiridh closes her eyes; they are wet with tears. Her silence is all the confirmation Iovara needs.

“You knew that already, didn’t you?” Iovara asks tentatively. “In your soul. He has touched it, shaped it, but he doesn’t hold it, am I right?” She hopes she is; for the girl’s sake, if not to gain another follower. “I am sorry for your anguish.” She truly is; it is not really the girl’s fault that she was misguided – the blame is on the guide. “But I only showed you the truth. It was Thaos who’s been feeding you lies.”

Deòiridh presses her eyelids together tightly for a moment, and the tears overflow and start falling down her cheeks. When she opens her eyes again, there is pain in her gaze – pain, but also some strange sort of determination that makes Iovara think of a ray of sunlight piercing the clouds on a rainy day.

“He has been giving me hope,” Deòiridh whispers, voice quivering. Ah, still that loyalty.

“And I am sorry for that.” Iovara shakes her head. “He shouldn’t have deceived you. He shouldn’t have deceived any of us.”

“Maybe he lied,” Deòiridh says quietly. “But you took hope away from us. From so many.” She turns towards the door, shoulders sagging; she seems very lonely and very tired. “There’s no greater sin than taking someone’s hope away.”

“His words, again,” Iovara chides gently.

“That a word comes from your opponent’s mouth doesn’t mean it can’t be true,” Deòiridh says in a hollow voice, not glancing back. “Your own words, not his.” Her hand trembles on the panel opening the door. “I am sorry, Iovara, for what I did. For what has been done to you because of me.” She chokes on tears. “But I would do it all over again if I had to.” Finally, she looks back. Her red hair make her look pale as if she was just a shade of herself. “And if he throws me away… What does it matter, in a world without hope?”

Iovara is not moved. After all, Thaos told her the very same thing once. Or maybe numerous times. It is difficult to remember when all the details blur, images flittering and overlapping until the adra walls of the prison and Thaos’ adra-coloured eyes become one and the same.

* * *

 

Walls of adra, walls of stone; until she cannot tell where she is and whether she still has a body. Gleam of adra, gleam of adra-coloured eyes; dark and deep and endless and leading nowhere. Eternal silence of the soul prison, and the silence of the cell, the hiss of fire the only sound; the taste of blood in her mouth as she bites her lip but refuses to cry out; Thaos’ hands, always, always clean. Eternal silence of the prison and loud voice arguing in a stone cell – her own voice – and Thaos’ calm replies, always even, always quiet, as if he was made of stone himself and nothing could move him; but Iovara knows he is made of adra, and able to catch and keep souls.

They must have talked a dozen times, she remembers that; but all their discussions blur into one, shattered by the creak of the door or Thaos’ footsteps – strangely distant sounds that last no longer than for a blink – and then assemble themselves anew. Always the same shards they keep throwing at each other; the master and the apprentice, the priest and the heretic, the father and the prodigal daughter; wheels and circles, truths and lies, lies and truths, always, always intertwined.

“You want to give people the truth,” Thaos says, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You keep saying that.” He is looking at her as if she was very slow to learn, as if she brought him to the end of his patience at last; and yet he still refuses to raise his voice. “But have you ever thought what you would take away from them?”

“The gods’ blessings?” Iovara asks, cocking her head slightly like a curious bird. She feels like a small bird sometimes; vulnerable and painfully aware of her brittleness, and yet still able to fly. “They are not the source of our strength. Even your powers do not come from Woedica.”

“Some are,” he answers, probably referring to his perfect memory of lives past. “No one can deny that they have real power. Even you.”

“And yet they rarely use it.”

“Oh?” A mocking smile twists his lips. “Would you have them interfere more often, then? You, who values choice and free will above all?”

“Not my question...” she pauses and looks him in the eye. “Master.”

“Indeed not,” Thaos agrees, unruffled, unmoved as ever. “Yes, not all my powers are gifts from Woedica. Most of them aren’t.” He is speaking as if he were giving her a lecture or a sermon, in a calm voice which is rising and falling like ocean waves, in a tone she used to find soothing. “Magical talents – any talents and inclinations at all – depend on the strength of a soul, on willpower. And on faith.”

Iovara snorts. “In the gods?”

“No,” he replies quietly. “Not just gods. Simply faith; in anything.” His hands move, accentuating his words with subtle gestures. “Faith in your country. In healing the sick. In nursing broken souls. All you need is conviction and determination.”

“Have I misheard?” Iovara gives him a small smile. “Have you just admitted I am right?”

“You speak the truth. That doesn’t mean you are right.” Thaos’ brow furrows; the wrinkles between his eyebrows are deeper than she remembers. “Now think where do kith get that strength from.”

“Only because they know nothing but your lies.”

“Only that?” His eyes narrow, and for a moment he looks like a prowling drake. “Foolish girl. You understand nothing.” He raises his voice, just a little, but instead of satisfaction at having successfully riled him up, Iovara feels apprehension, even though after a few days with his inquisitors, she no longer really fears him. “You haven’t seen how it was...”

“And you have?” she interrupts.

His eyes darken. “You cannot imagine what I’ve seen or done.” His voice sounds strangely hollow, like an echo in an empty chamber. Suddenly he moves, and in two strides he is right in front of her. “I won’t let you destroy it, do you understand?” The question is quiet, and all the more terrifying for it.

“And what’s the price? My life? How many more?” Iovara demands, afraid for her friends and followers imprisoned in the underground cells somewhere under the temple. She will never give up, no matter the cost, but they should not be accused of her crimes; something the high priest of the goddess of justice should know better than anyone.

“What are a few lives compared to the future of the world?” Thaos says dispassionately. “And how many more after you?” His face is calm, but his eyes are blazing; and despite that, there is almost tangible cold radiating off him – the frost of ages. “Well, that depends on them.”

“Is that what you want?” Iovara shakes her head, no longer even disenchanted. “A war, in the name of your gods?”

Thaos shrugs. “None of you will live long enough for that to ever come to be. Besides,” he adds with a sneer, “people were fighting wars even before they had the names of ‘my gods’ to use them as shields. Before, they had other gods for that purpose.”

Iovara’s inner fire flares. “Do you hear what you are saying? That is precisely why everyone should learn the truth!”

Thaos watches her for a moment, and then he starts laughing. “Silly, naive child,” he says with contempt. “You think the truth will magically improve the world, that it will mend its broken foundations? You think the gods are the reason? You really think kings and lords would never go to war if not for their faith?” His lips curl into a derisive, mirthless smile. “The kith will always keep fighting. For lands, for gold; for the neighbouring valley where the crops are better. Everything else is just a pretext.” His face clouds over. “And we mortals are extremely skilled at finding pretexts. But it’s grander once you invoke a god’s name and raise it over your petty little war like a banner, isn’t it? It absolves you of guilt. It’s a holy duty to listen to the gods’ commands, is it not? A moral obligation. People will follow more willingly when the responsibility is someone else’s. Orders will be obeyed, and given more swiftly. Why hesitate, when you are just a tool?”

Iovara is watching him silently. It is not enough to make her agree that he is right, even though she cannot counter all his arguments, cannot dismiss them. But she does not have to.

“Is that how you feel?” she asks quietly, almost in a whisper, trying to use his own trick against him. “Is that what you do?”

“Yes, I do that.” He replies without missing a beat, without the slightest moment of hesitation. “And you used to be grateful for it, apprentice.” His expression is hard and cold like the stone walls of her cell. “But if my gods are false, as you claim, who will absolve me, then? Who will take responsibility?”

To that, Iovara has no answer. Yet maybe she does not need one.

“But unlike you,” she says softly to his back, as he is walking towards the door, “they might understand, once the pretext is gone. I believe they will.”

Thaos stops at the threshold and looks at her over shoulder. “No, they won’t,” he says grimly. “There is one truth you can learn if you live long enough: people never change. And they will always find a reason. You no longer believe, and yet you were ready to kindle a fire that would scorch the face of Eora.”

“You mean start a war?” Iovara tilts her chin up proudly. “I’ve never encouraged my followers to fight; I only wanted to give people the truth.”

“You’ve never thought of the consequences, either. Because your truth obscured the view.”

“It opened my eyes.”

“You have eyes that can watch, and yet you do not see,” Thaos says; a strange echo of the words of the old Wael priestess. “That’s quite a feat, apprentice.” His mouth curls up in a patronising smile, but it does not reach past his lips. He spares her one last glance before he turns towards the door, and his gaze is sharp like a dagger, with the jagged edges of profound disappointment.


	9. Chapter 9

She must be his greatest failure, refusing to forsake her truth no matter what pain they put her through, refusing to cry out no matter what they use: metal and fire, and threats against her friends. She must persevere; if she gives up on the truth, what will be left? Nothing but a tiresome, empty existence that could not even be called a life.

Every time the robed, masked figures come to her cell for another interrogation, she lifts her head up, as high as she can – which is lower every time – and refuses to make a sound. They can harm, but cannot hurt her; the pain of the soul has always been worse than that of the flesh.

Sometimes, Thaos is with them, in a simple robe or the vestments of the high priest, the fabric always too pristine against the grime of the cell. His face unmasked, no gloves on his hands, as if he wanted to show everyone that he has nothing to hide. Iovara briefly wonders if that is how Deòiridh thinks of it, if that is how she can bear it – by convincing herself he does nothing else but watch.

That is how it is, though; he does nothing but watch and give orders. Always a quiet shadow, there and not there, letting others speak for him and lead the inquiry, as if she was not worthy of his words. As if she was not worthy of his thoughts. As if she was nothing but a cracked wheel in the machine of his world; a wheel that will either be put on the anvil to be reforged, or will be broken.

Iovara looks at Thaos and wonders why he keeps insisting on dragging this farce out when they both already know how it will end. How it must end.

He is standing aside, still and emotionless like a statue; only his eyes are alive and his eyelids moving whenever he blinks, as if he was following the train of her thoughts. His robe is unstained and his hands are clean, pale and unblemished like the most pristine candles. Of course. Of course he would keep his hands clean when he has others ready to do his dirty work, when he has blindly loyal followers ready to do as he commands, whatever it is he orders.

Iovara tenses, and even though it is a great strain, she manages to lift her head and smile at him. "You let others do your work for you, don't you? Like you always have. You let others commit the atrocities to your directions, you..."

One of the masked figures in front of her hisses in rage, while the other raises a hand to strike her, but one glance from Thaos stops them. They obediently step back when he approaches, in slow, purposeful steps.

"Worry not for them, child. The sin is mine." He smiles down at her softly - it is a terrible sight to behold - and gently touches her cheek and holds her face between his palms. "But unlike you, I am aware of the price that has to be paid." There is some terrifying sort of calm in his voice and expressions. "And no, I am not afraid to get my hands dirty," he says quietly.

His left hand slides into her hair to keep her head in place. Iovara grits her teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of having scared her. She is not afraid, she will bear it with dignity... She freezes, suddenly overwhelmed with dread - and memories - as the fingers of his right hand brush across her cheek in a familiar pattern of the holy seal...

And then there is a flash of fire, and Iovara shuts her eyes tightly and screams for the first time since the beginning of her ordeal; she screams as the spell burns and melts her skin and she smells the sickly odour, she screams and screams as Thaos firmly - but oh so gently - holds her head and watches her with cold, detached focus, his fingertips hovering steadily just above her cheek until her voice grows hoarse and she gasps for air and cannot breathe because the stench clings to her nostrils and fills her lungs.

When he withdraws, there are burns and blisters on his fingers as well; Iovara does not want to think what her own face looks like.

"No one else can do my work," he says quietly, and his words chill her to the bone because his meaning is clear now: she would never give up her convictions because of pain, but he knows her better than anyone else and thus he is able to hurt her as no one else ever could. He took the memories of the times when they had been happy - when they had been a family - and twisted them into a searing brand that has marred her face and stabbed her right into the very soul. And still it is but a warning: I can break you, child, remember that; I could shatter you if I wished, but know my mercy while it lasts.

Iovara tries to grit her teeth, but the muscles do not listen, and the pain is so great she almost cries out again. She closes her eyes, takes a slow, shuddering breath, and then another, until she has enough strength to look at him. When she finally lifts her head, she feels as if she was about to faint.

"No, no one else could," she agrees in a rugged whisper. "No one else... father," she adds.

He does not react. She expected something at least, a flash of anger in his eyes or an involuntary twinge of a muscle on his face, but he does not react at all.

"I hope you are glad to have proof that I commit my atrocities personally when I must, daughter," he replies calmly, indifferent and cold.

Without another word, he turns away and strides out of the cell, leaving Iovara with the revelation that this is not, and has never been, a fair fight. That he has been hiding his real thoughts for years, that he can mask his true feelings much better than she is able to, and even if she managed to hurt him, she would never be able to tell because he would not betray a thing.

* * *

 

When he comes into her cell a few days later, it seems he has aged a few years; the traces of wrinkles have become paths, and the silver threads in his dark hair have grown into visible patches. He carries himself with assurance and quiet dignity, but the usual grace of his efficient movements is gone, leaving only sharp edges, as if he was too weary and had no energy for anything that is not strictly necessary.

Iovara shakes her head; it is simply not possible. The light here is dim and she is still feverish and not seeing clearly. And if he is exhausted because he cannot sleep at night - which she highly doubts - well, there is no else who deserves that more, is there?

It is not within her power to hurt him, to weaken him, and she cannot hope to convince him to understand her point of view. The only weapon she still has is her usual defiance; she will not let him win when she knows for certain that she is right, she will do everything she still can to expose his lies, by her own constancy, if nothing else. She will deny his accusations and confess nothing; indeed, she will accuse him, she will sow the grains of doubt in the hearts of his followers; she will teach them to question, at least, to take nothing for granted. Just as Thaos taught her to question and to think, except with different means.

Iovara turns her head and smiles at him benevolently. If she has learnt anything at his side, it is patience. She is parched and she does not trust her voice, but she can tell him without words that despite everything, she still has the moral higher ground, that she is courageous while he is a coward, that it takes more endurance to withstand pain than to inflict it. That he would not be able to go through what she has suffered and then smile at his adversary without malice or contempt. If he deserves anything, it is pity, for he is blind to the gravity of his errors; but she is not so saintly as to sympathize with him. There is still regret that it has all ended this way, but it is bitter now, without the aching sweetness of hope.

Thaos watches her calmly, his features set into a motionless mask, as if he was disillusioned as well. She promised she would never fail him and he thinks she did.

I never failed, Iovara thinks proudly. It is you who failed, master; father. Me, your students, everyone. Even your gods.

"So you do have some fire in you still," Thaos comments at last. "A pity you decided to waste it so."

"It is not a waste," Iovara croaks. She turns away when he kneels beside her and offers her a cup of water, but she moves too abruptly, accidentally pushing the cup out of his hands and drenching a side of her stained and tattered robes.

"It is," he says quietly. "Do not presume to judge me, child," he adds, gently turning her face towards him, without touching her burnt cheek.

"Why shouldn't I, when you judge me? It is for me to decide if my life has been a waste..."

"Every life thrown away too quickly is a waste," he interrupts. "And you are wasting yours, Iovara." His hand drops, but his eyes are serious and there is something familiar in his gaze; he looked at her like that on that evening when he explained everything, during those last moments they were family. "Because it will end prematurely if you don't renounce your heresies."

"Those are not heresies. You know that better than anyone."

"They will be heresies to the world one way or another. That is not the choice I am giving you." He gets up and brushes the dust and dirt off his robe. "You can only choose whether you will live, Iovara. And only that."

"Did you think that would frighten me, after what you put me through?” She laughs quietly, truly amused. “You really came here to waste time on threats?"

"I came here to warn you," Thaos says quietly; his tone is almost gentle, but it makes a shudder creep up her spine. "There are fates worse than death, daughter. Believe me, I know."

“Do you think,” Iovara asks softly, “that I will ever believe you again? Do you think you will make me choose by giving me no choice at all?”

His eyes narrow. “Interesting that you should accuse me of something you tried to do yourself.”

“I wanted to tell people the truth,” Iovara replies staunchly. “Only that. To let them choose between that and your comforting lies.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Thaos says slowly, in a low, cold voice, “that maybe they have never asked to know it?”

“They did!” If it was not so, how would she have gained any followers at all? “Some did. Even if they could not name their anxiety.”

“Some did,” Thaos repeats, highlighting the first word. “Does it mean that some didn’t, apprentice?”

“It was the right decision,” Iovara replies hotly. “And you know it.”

“Ah.” Thaos smiles briefly; a gleam of light on the surface of the mirror, nothing more. “So you admit there was a decision made, after all.”

“I only wanted to show them another path.” She shakes her head. “Better than yours.”

“You wanted to decide for them in this, just as I had; the very thing you now despise me for.” He straightens, suddenly towering over her. “But I am the only one that gives people tools to deal with the lack of choice.”

Iovara knows he is only a misguided man, and yet, as the flames on the torches flicker, for a moment he seems more than a mere human, more than a mere mortal. But it is only the trick of the light.

She smiles - weakly, because she does not have strength for anything else, but smiles all the same just to turn his argument into a jest and thus show him how feeble it is. “I don’t feel well equipped to deal with the lack of choice you offer me.”

He moves, and in a blink of an eye the illusion vanishes, and he is a man once more, weary and exhausted. “Do not blame me when you were the one who threw your tools away.”

“I will build my own. I’ve learnt enough.”

Thaos leans towards her a little, his features changing in time with the trembling of the flames on the torches – cold and indifferent like stone, and then tired, reminding her of embers turning to ash. But when he looks at her, the weariness is gone, held at bay by the strength of will, the same that presses his lips into a thin line of disapproval.

“You’ve learnt nothing,” he says, sharply, but without raising his voice and without malice. “You just went ahead, zealous as usual, full of fire, but without the guidance to show you the way. And left on your own, you got lost.”

Iovara shakes her head defiantly. “I thought you’d at least try to talk to me,” she says, each word heavy with reproach. “I thought you would do what you’ve always taught me and just _listen_. I thought...”

“No,” Thaos interrupts coldly. “You weren’t thinking. You weren’t thinking at all.” He kneels beside her, suddenly human again, close, familiar; the master and the father, explaining a stupid mistake to his child. “Had you been thinking, you would have kept silent. You would have nodded at my words and stood beside me and done my will, waiting for my death. And then you would speak – being my heiress, having my authority and blessing. I would not be there to stop you, and no one else could do that. Many would leave and protest, but how could they win when you’d be speaking in my name? Maybe no one would fight. Maybe no one would die... At least unless you carried your revelations out into the world.”

Iovara is staring at him in shock, because that plan, heard from Thaos’ lips, sounds so simple, seem so obvious, so... It strikes her that she could have waited; twenty, thirty years; it would still be just a fraction of her lifespan. She could simply have decided to outlive him, and she would still be young after he was gone. She could have... She could have achieved her goal so easily...

Thaos is watching her in concentration, as if he was guessing what storm has been unleashed in her soul. He probably knows – after all, he can see it.

“All you needed was just a little patience. Even humans can wait for years; and your kind lives much longer.” Thaos gets up. “But you’ve always been impulsive. Reckless.” He walks over to the door in even, purposeful steps.

She is looking at him in confusion and... not despair, she is beyond that; she has been beyond that ever since she accepted the truth. There is just a hint of sadness at the realisation he is still trying to cause her pain.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks.

Thaos looks at her over his shoulder. “Because you were my apprentice, and I had great expectations of you. And you ruined all of them.” His lips twist in a brief grimace. “But it doesn’t matter. In ten years, a hundred, a thousand... Someday, there will be someone else.”

“Then why do you keep coming here for empty talk?” she demands, more a hurt daughter than the confident preacher she is. And, even though she is trying to conceal it, there is anger and resentment in her voice. “Why won’t you just kill me?”

“Because if you keep clinging to your truth so stubbornly, death would be too lenient. But if you confess to heresy...” His eyebrows arch and he shrugs, but Iovara does not let that gesture fool her, because Thaos’ eyes are focused on her all the time. “You were my apprentice,” he adds, as if that explained everything, as if that was all that needed to be said.

Iovara smiles faintly. Yes, she was. She was also his daughter, but that way is closed for her forever; she burnt that bridge when she left and stood up to him.

“And I could be your apprentice again?” she asks, mocking him gently.

“No. But...” The ice that has been glazing his eyes over suddenly melts, and there is that familiar flame kindling in their depths; not that of a pyre, but of a hearth. “You could live. Without pain. All this...” He reaches out towards her with his hand, and even though he is using no spells, such is the power of his suggestion that Iovara can feel all her wounds sting. “All this,” he repeats, “can still be reversed and mended.” For a heartbeat – just one twitch of her aching heartstrings – his voice becomes softer. “You only need to say one word.”

It costs her a great deal of effort, but Iovara lifts her head proudly. “No.” She smiles, feeling completely at peace; if this is how he feels when Woedica grants him her false blessing, she could almost – almost – understand why he has not steered away from his path. “Don’t you see? I’m not afraid... Eminence.” He has taken years of her life, her health, her face, her future, her friends; briefly, even her hope. She will not give up at the end to let it all go to waste. He is the most terrifying when kind and merciful, but she is no longer afraid. “There is nothing else you can take from me.”

Thaos calmly meets her stare, unmoved by her words and sudden serenity in the slightest, saying nothing; but the fire in his eyes freezes. And then he smiles in reply; a patronising smile meant for a student who is not yet ready for another lesson, an expression that barely curls his lips, but settles on his face like a mask.

“Ah, child,” he says, weary and grimly amused and something else entirely, something Iovara cannot decipher; his smile cuts like broken glass; glass that has been crushed into bright sand and seems soft, but once tread upon, the splinters dig in everywhere. “I thought you knew me better.”


	10. Chapter 10

When it is Thaos who visits her, and not that young acolyte, Iovara knows. She looks at him through adra, saddened and angry – because it was not necessary, because that girl would have done anything he could ask for, things much more difficult and much worse than simply keeping a secret – had already done so much, so he did not have to... Deòiridh was naive, but she did not deserve to perish so... senselessly.

“You killed her,” Iovara accuses, appalled; she expected that even he would have some... boundaries. Another mistake. “She was your lover, and you killed her...” It really should not be so shocking to her; not from this man.

Thaos watches her dispassionately. “I did,” he replies, utterly calm.

“She would have never breathed a word, had you forbidden it!” Iovara reproaches, because even though she never particularly liked the girl, Deòiridh was so young, and...

“No.” There is a gleam deep in Thaos’ eyes. “No, she would have never betrayed me.”

“Of course. You would know; you saw her soul.” Iovara shakes her head; half-transparent hair falls across her face like a shadow. “Did you just grow bored? Or maybe she was simply no longer useful and became unnecessary?”

“Unnecessary?” he asks quietly. “You were not necessary.” He comes closer, until his face is right behind the adra wall; there is fire at the bottom of the twin wells of his eyes. “But she? I could have kept making use of her talent for many years.”

As if to prove to Iovara how meaningless she is, he turns away from her and towards a nearby adra vein – pillar; and when he does, one of the souls hovering there flutters and moves closer to the surface of the crystal, as if it was sensing his presence. Thaos blinks, and then his eyes focus on the tiny orb of light. Then, slowly, he walks over to the pillar and reaches out absent-mindedly, lost in thoughts. When his fingertips touch the adra, the formless soul flares up and, hesitantly, as if it was no longer sure who it was, transforms into a translucent image of a pale, red-haired woman.

Iovara watches, unsure whether this is real or just another trick, another curtain of lies. She is sensing the souls which are passing through the nearby adra back into the Wheel, and this one indeed seems familiar; but with Thaos, there is no certainty. And if the girl followed his orders so obediently in life, why would he not be able to command her still? Iovara remembers when she had first seen Deòiridh at the stairs of a small temple, just one of the faithful, too shy and frightened to make that final step and follow her calling; a small pilgrim's crown bud on a vast meadow. But Thaos had noticed; he tended to her and made her grow and bloom, and then shine; the smallest flower in the grass, and yet the brightest. Oh, he has always been an expert gardener of souls.

Deòiridh looks up at Thaos sadly, and then lifts her hand and puts it against the crystal on the inside, as if she could touch his palm. For a moment, they just look at each other in silence, and then she nods at him – as if they were speaking; maybe they are, or maybe it is but an illusion – and disappears, melting into the adra.

Iovara watches as Thaos turns back to her.

“She asked me to do it.” For a moment, the flame in his eyes looks more like a candle than a conflagration. “It was the only favour she ever asked me for. Do you know why?” His whisper cuts through the air like a sword of Durgan steel. “Because she couldn’t live with the truth you offered, because the knowledge you revealed proved to be too heavy a burden.” Thaos’ eyes narrow slightly. “I told you to be careful. You didn’t listen.”

“No.” Iovara leaps towards the thick adra panel separating her from the world. “You were the one who killed her.”

“My hand guided the blade,” Thaos replies evenly. “But your words were what took away her will to live.” A corner of his lips curls up in a smile she remembers from some statues of Woedica; seemingly an expression of serene justice, while it is nothing but just a cold grimace of superiority. “Judge yourself which of us is more guilty.”

“Some cannot face the truth, nor bear it,” Iovara says fiercely. “That doesn’t mean it should be hidden from all.” Suddenly something dawns on her and she smiles, warmly and brightly as if she could bless the world with it. “If I found out, someone will do it again. You cannot succeed; there will always be others after me.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” The line of his mouth reminds her of a curved dagger. “But there had been others before you as well.”

* * *

 

She does not know how much time passes; maybe a month, maybe a few hours. Time flows differently in Breith Eaman, and differently for a soul left to its own devices, so to her, it is distorted twice over. And the only way she can measure it is by the passage of souls; those of her followers who remained loyal to their cause.

Some stay in other adra cells, but many beg the gods for forgiveness – an ultimate mockery – and are released. And many more deny her. They are not ready to have their souls imprisoned, to give up their future lives. To give up immortality, such as it is accessible for the kith.

Iovara watches the former and thinks of the latter with sorrow. She will never bend, never break... But she cannot condemn them for something she can understand. Not everyone was made for sacrifices.

Made by whom, echoes her mind in Thaos’ voice, but she firmly tells it to shut up. She will not let her own thoughts betray her; everything, but not that.

And then she is startled out of her musings by a familiar presence, and she rushes to the adra wall and puts both her non-hands on it. “Piran!”

Unlike many others, who are just shades or patches of light, he retains his form. Iovara wants to cry for seeing him here, knowing what it means; and then to cry again for joy that he understood her in the end, that he stood up for her; wants to weep because of his heartbreaking loyalty, all the more touching after seeing how many deserted her. He cannot hear her now, but surely, they will find a way to communicate; they have always finished each other’s sentences, they have always known each other’s thoughts... Had, before she left. But now they will make things between them right again.

And then she sees that Piran is not even looking around, that he is not searching for her. That he does not rebel against his fate; he is not angry or sad, but cold and decisive and perfectly calm as he kneels down, raises his misty hands in a gesture of worship and closes his eyes.

“Hear me, Oathbinder!” he calls into the adra, and then starts whispering ardently, too quietly for her to hear.

Iovara pounds on the adra wall, but her palms have no substance to make a sound; she shouts, but one of their prison cells lets the sound pass through only one way. She wants to grab his shoulders and shake him, remind him that they used him and then took his life; but she can do nothing as she watches him beg Woedica’s forgiveness and swear his soul into the False Queen’s service all over again.

Then she recalls Thaos’ words; yes, she should have known him better. She should have expected that he would always find a way, that he mapped her soul and mind, and knows which gates will be unguarded and which walls he can crush.

And now she can do nothing but watch – in terror and despair, and then in resignation – as her friend makes an offering of himself. And Woedica accepts; Piran’s soul melts into adra as the Queen lets him return to the cycle. For another moment Iovara can see a luminous trace in the stone vein, and then she is alone again, more alone than she has ever been.

Despite her wishes, memories take her back to that evening in the gardens. Maybe if she had stayed for a moment longer, if she had asked... Iovara shatters the mental image and pushes it out of her mind. It would be pointless to dwell on it now, anyway.

* * *

 

She hold on to those shards, and hurls them at Thaos when he visits her again.

“Him, too?” Iovara asks quietly, trying to control herself, but shaking with anger and... No, she will not. That is what Thaos wants. “He was loyal to you. That’s how you reward loyalty?”

“He had his doubts,” Thaos explains, unmoved. “And they were big enough.”

Iovara curls her immaterial hands into fists. “He followed you through everything, he was loyal, and now...”

“If he was as loyal to our cause as you claim,” Thaos interrupts, ultimately taking her friend away from her with a single word that removes her from the equation, “he understood that sacrifices are sometimes necessary. Take solace in the knowledge that he never forgot you.” He pauses, giving her time to realise she does not wish to hear more; that she is aware he is going to twist this simple sentence into another torture device. “Ah.” Thaos noticed her carefully blank expression that is masking fear. “Finally opening your eyes, aren’t you?” he asks. “Yes, child, your guess is correct. He never forgot you and he had doubts. Everyone easily believed he would have acted out of vengeance.”

Iovara shakes her head. “The mind mages would have...”

“Read the impressions from the weapon? Of course they did. And they saw me. Why would that be suspicious, when I was the one who found her, who took the knife out of her chest? She was my lover, after all.” There is no malice or satisfaction in his voice; only emptiness. “That is exactly what the mages saw. They also saw your friend looking down at her over the edge of the bloodied knife.”

If sight could burn – if she still had sight, or real hands to draw the symbol of the seal – Thaos would have turned to ash on the spot. But words are the only weapon still available to her.

“It’s so easy, to pay with someone else’s life, isn’t it? It’s not the first time you did this, after all.” There is fire in her voice, similar to the one that blazed within her when she was speaking to her followers and apprentices; and before than, when she was preaching. “So easy, to let someone else make an offering of their life...”

Thaos’ eyes are like two bottomless adra wells. “And how do you know I didn’t offer mine as well?” he asks quietly, in a tone that makes her soul freeze over.

Not this time, father, she thinks. Oh, no, she will not be manipulated ever again.

“What?” she snorts. “That doesn’t count. Not when you always come back.”

“You don’t understand,” he says dryly, as if he never expected her to. “Remember what I told you? There are worse things; your punishment is one of them. You should have noticed it by now, hot-headed, naive girl, whose great cause ends at the tip of her own little nose.”

Iovara grits her teeth. No arguments he used swayed her; she did not fall for his false compassion; even what he did to Piran did not break her... But now he finally gets to her; not what he said, but how he did it – his indifference and disdain, and the very fact that he brushed her aside like a petulant child.

“That is your worst fear, isn’t it?” Thaos ask quietly, almost as if he offered sympathy; almost as if he could still understand her – truly understand, not simply comprehend how the mechanisms of her soul tick. “That history will forget you, as if your attempts were a child’s play and nothing more.”

“Of course that’s what you would think,” she replies at last, reining her emotions in. “Of course that’s what you would tell yourself.”

He shrugs, as if she was not significant enough to deserve a reply. “A pity you couldn’t be persuaded to be reasonable,” he says instead, and then smiles. “Unlike your sister.”

Iovara throws herself at the adra wall – against it – she cannot even touch it, lest of all break it – as rage blinds her and consumes her serenity in an instant.

“If you hurt her....” she breaks off, aware of her own helplessness, knowing there is nothing she can do; any threat will be only empty words.

“Why would I do that? She did nothing against me; she is loyal.” Never before has praise sounded so terrible. “Worry not, child.” Thaos comes closer, so close that the gleam of adra is reflecting in his eyes. “No one could hurt her more than you did.” There is no pity in him, but he is talking as if he understood Riovan’s supposed pain, as if he truly saw where she was broken. “Ah, you didn’t know she joined the Inquisition, did you? You didn’t recognise her when she stood beside me in your cell, watching? You had no idea she now is my faithful scribe?”

Iovara forces herself to stay in place, even though instinct tells her to step back. “I will never fall for your tricks again,” she vows, certain of that one thing, at least. “I will never trust anything you say.”

Thaos is looking at her like someone who has already won the duel, waiting for the opponent to realise it. For once, he is not smiling.

“Those are not tricks, and you know it. You wouldn’t be protesting so staunchly otherwise.” His eyes narrow a little, as if he was trying to read her soul. “Nothing hurts as much as the truth about ourselves, isn’t that so? But you know that, too.”

Iovara is silent, because even though she wants nothing as much as to parry his blow, she cannot find words. But that does not mean she is going to believe him. No; never again.

“Oh, this is not a matter of belief, daughter. Not the way you think.”

“Aren’t most of your facts a matter of belief?” she retorts.

“Most of all facts,” he explains, unruffled. “That is why people can never agree; they see what they believe, not the grain of truth that lies at the base of it.”

“Isn’t that convenient, though? Isn’t that what you do? Let people interpret your words however they wish?”

“That usually happens to words.” His eyebrows arch. “You’ve just done it yourself.” Finally, a thin smile appears of his lips; the smile that has been the fabric of her nightmares when she could still sleep and dream. “But you accused me of lies, not manipulation. Interpreting my decisions as you saw fit.”

“And what you did, accusing me?” she calls towards him as he turns to leave.

Thaos stops mid-turn. “I,” he says quietly, in a voice dry and cracked like frozen earth, “cannot allow myself to think of convenience.”

That tips her into anger and over it, into a serene, still place that is like waking to delicate frosty patterns painted over the window glass. The fight is over and there, for a moment only, it occurs to her that maybe neither won. Then she focuses her thoughts inwards, and realises an important thing: that now, when everything is stripped away and taken from her, what remains is the path she walked on, straight as ever; a single line stretching across the void.

“Here, daughter,” Thaos says softly, “your truth; the sole thing you value above all. An empty place, isn’t it?”

She looks into his eyes, deep like ages. “You would know.”

“Yes.” His reply seems more a tired sigh than an actual word. “Yes, I do.”


	11. Chapter 11

She is floating in adra, apart from time and space – a soul thrown beyond the wheel of life, imprisoned in an eternal void where nothing exists but her own thoughts and memories. They form another kind of wheel – always the same shards of the past, always the same recollections – usually those she would rather forget. The memories are like a lake, like river rapids – a blurred whirlwind, from which brief coherent pictures emerge only rarely, each of them like drops of water dripping down the cold stone walls of a prison cell.

Her soul has been put on the rack, but she never broke, never shattered; she ascended. And yet, the very moment Iovara is finally certain her truth is the only one that is, she is left in the emptiness, with nothing but her decisions to keep her company for all eternity. So she takes her truth in her hands and holds onto it.

She only wanted to give it to people. That was all she kept fighting for; to show the light to those who have been kept in darkness their whole lives. Now, for the first time, she wonders if they would want to accept it, as her followers had; she wonders not about the way which led her here, but muses on how she walked it.

At first, she believed in the gods - Thaos’ gods... But it turned out they were not real. Not, not unreal, for they exist and wield the power of thousands of souls; but not true gods, for they were created by the mortal hands of old Engwith. She believed Thaos, but he had been lying to her. Later, she believed in people, but even many of her friends abandoned her in the end. Then, having nothing else, she believed in herself, and yet despite the certainty of her own righteousness she accomplished nothing. Now she clings to the truth – her truth – with all her willpower, because that is the only thing she has left.

This prison is yet another proof. She can see souls returning to the cycle, can hear the churning of the Wheel that had been in motion long before the gods came into existence; whatever makes the Wheel turn, it is not Berath’s hand.

That alone confirms that Thaos’ decisions were a terrible mistake. Iovara is deeply convinced that what she wanted to do – tried to do – would not have been another. She believes in it with all her soul.

She cannot understand why that is when those last memories always float back to the surface of her mind, even when she thought she drowned them out for good. Just two beads of a bracelet that slipped off the string when it broke, beads that she always intends to throw away, and yet they end up in her pocket again and again.

* * *

 

When Thaos visits her in the cell for the last time, Iovara cannot fathom why would he bother. Tortures did not force her to confess anything, his promises did not coax her to change her mind – what does he count on, then; what surprises does he have up his sleeve? Or has he simply come to say goodbye?

Ah, that would be so like him – illusory sympathy; an empty gesture of mercy, made just for show. Behold; the worried father comes to give his prodigal daughter one last chance to be absolved of her sins. Iovara has no doubt that is how many will imagine it later.

“Why are you here?” she asks quietly, calm – but is more weariness than inner peace.

Thaos slowly crosses his arms over his chest, watching her closely, as if he was trying to memorise every detail. “To see what courage looks like. While you still have it, child.”

Then he walks over, reaching out. Iovara involuntarily recoils – half a faltering step, as far as she can – until her back is flat against the stone wall.

“Do you really think I am that stupid?” Thaos asks with a small mocking smile, as his hand touches her unmarred cheek. “Do you think I’m here to kill you?”

His eyes close, and he starts muttering a spell under his breath, and almost instantly his palms light up with the soft glow of healing magic. Iovara suddenly feels as if someone put cool, soothing balm on all her wounds; there is a crack when her bones get into place, but no pain. The fever vanishes instantly, and all the cuts and burns heal; even the festering mess on her face scars over.

That is why he came? To heal her? What for? Why would he?

Iovara shakes her head; she will never understand him. He tortured her and pronounced the sentence, and now he comes to relieve her from suffering, right before she will be put back on the rack for the last time? It does not make any sense. Ah, no, it does; but she no longer believes in the only sensible explanation.

“Why?” she asks again, lifting her head and looking into his bottomless, dark eyes. “Why did you do that?”

Thaos is watching her coldly, without emotion; as if he forgot about the bond that once was between them, as if he tore the memories out of his mind and soul by the roots. Iovara wonders if that is even possible, and if anyone but Woedica herself can have that kind of power.

“You think death is a part of your punishment,” he explains, as if he was giving her yet another lesson. “You are wrong. That is something you will come to understand, in due time.” He leans towards her, and his eyes seem to be drawing all light out of the dim cell. “I will not let you become a martyr, Iovara. That is what you’re hoping for, aren’t you? You want people to remember, to tell your story. But they will forget. No one will remember you, child. No one. I will carry out the sentence, and you will just fade away.”

Iovara takes a breath and meets his cold eyes. “There is only one way down into the Court of the Penitents.”

Thaos pulls away, straightening his shoulders. Now, at a small distance, in the torchlight, he looks not like the high priest, but simply like an ordinary man. That is when Iovara fears him the most.

“Not for the soul, it isn’t,” he says.

Iovara wonders if he commands such power; if he can really tear a soul out of a body. And then she recalls that his people had the skills to create the gods.

“Someone will remember,” she replies, refusing to acknowledge his victory; it is the only way to turn it into a defeat. “Someone will remember I sacrificed everything for the truth.”

“The truth?” Thaos asks, cocking his head slightly, like a curious wyrm. “Look inside. It’s not the truth you do it for, daughter,” he says, reminding her that once, not so long ago, she was his most faithful apprentice – and, at the same time, how inexperienced and naive she is in his eyes. “You care neither for the truth, nor for people. You only want to have a goal, a mission; something greater than you are, something you can devote yourself to wholly, something that kindles the fire in your soul. All you need is an important cause. One truth or another; that is secondary to you. You want a struggle that will prove you are right – to yourself even more than to others.” His smile is gentle, almost fatherly, but his eyes glint like knives. “You don’t know it yet. But soon you will.” He takes her by the chin. “Eternity, my child, gives a soul a lot of time for doubts.”

“I have no doubts.” She lifts her head away from his hand. “You will be glad to hear I also have no hope. But I don’t need it. The truth is always the most important in the end."

Thaos shakes his head slowly. “You see how the world moves, but not what keeps it in motion.” He lets his hand fall to his side, but does not step away. “There is the single most important thing; it is different for everyone. The only answer is that each person has their own. But more often, it is hope; truth brings no solace. We would not lie to ourselves so frequently if it did.”

“I know it brought me solace.”

“Did it?” he asks, eyes looking through her. “Or have you just finally mastered lying to yourself, apprentice?”

Before she can answer, he touches her scarred cheek, and despite countless assurances that she is not afraid, Iovara freezes. But he just runs his fingertips along the marred flesh; the only wound he did not heal.

“What is it?” Iovara asks quietly, mocking, more to give herself courage than for any other reason. “You are too weak to undo your own magic, father?”

Thaos looks at her face with a strange glimmer in his eyes; like a gleam of firelight on broken steel. “Let this be my heirloom for you, daughter,” he says quietly, without scorn and without a smile.

And then he turns away abruptly and walks straight towards the door, and Iovara knows all discussions are over now; whatever he decided, he will not change his mind.  He will not listen, even to her. He has never listened. Iovara feels hurt, but she will not let him win this way.

“Why didn’t you let your gods resolve this?" she calls after him bitterly. “Why didn’t you beg them to solve this problem and prove their power to the whole world, all in one go? Wouldn’t it be all too easy for them to crush a disobedient little soul like mine? Why wouldn’t they deal with such a heretic themselves?”

Thaos stops and looks at her over his shoulder. The shadows veiling his silhouette make his eyes look like two bottomless, dark wells; his furrowed face looks almost as pale as his white hair, even in the dim light.

When he speaks at last, his voice is weary. “Because I begged them not to.”

* * *

 

Candlelight is gleaming on all the adra and copper, making the robe look like the night sky bejewelled with stars, or like strings of gems and pearls scattered on the sand beneath the surface of a shimmering lake. But now, the glittering embroidery seems more like pieces of a soul that has been torn apart. Her soul.

She should have guessed he would choose this particular robe. That he will want to show her all her work was in vain; there is no more literal symbol. She should have anticipated that he will want to remind her of what she lost, what she could have had, who she could have been... if had she only disavowed herself.

A quiet, nagging voice at the back of her mind – the voice that even the fire and iron did not manage to drive out – whispers that she already lost everything that night in the temple, when she overheard a discussion that was never meant for her ears. And that later she renounced the last shard of herself she still had.

No, Iovara thinks passionately, no; you are lying, child. After all, that is what he taught her to do.

Thaos is looking at her as if he knew her thoughts. She thinks he should; she has repeated them to him many times. He just refused to listen.

“It will not hurt,” he murmurs, leaning towards her.

Iovara feels the urge to spit in his face for once, but she will not give him the satisfaction. She smiles benevolently and steadily meets his gaze; his eyes are deep and dark like the pit in the Court of the Penitents.

She says nothing; there is no point. He can read everything she wants to tell him in her thoughts and in her soul.

I never doubted, her defiant stare tells him; you failed, for I never doubted despite all your efforts. I know what I believe in; I have no doubts. I have no doubts.

Thaos does not speak either; he only smiles gently at her, a sight that makes her shudder. Then he steps away, takes her face in his hands and formally kisses her forehead, as if bestowing a fatherly blessing.

Involuntarily, Iovara’s eyes flutter closed, even though she knows what is about to happen. There is no pain when the soul is being torn out of her body; Thaos splits the two kinds of matter carefully and with utmost precision. For a moment, she feels as if she was falling, as if her feet lost purchase; then there is a flash of light, so bright it is dazzling even seen through closed eyelids.

And then there is Thaos’ voice, clear, but slightly muffled, as if coming through a thick pane of glass:

“But you will have doubts, daughter. Oh yes, you will.”

The adra walls, surrounding her from all sides, are the colour of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
> This author replies to comments.



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